


The Mandalore Wars

by ambiguous_nights



Category: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dark Satine, Hurt Obi-Wan Kenobi, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-09
Updated: 2020-03-22
Packaged: 2020-04-23 05:01:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 18
Words: 50,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19144090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ambiguous_nights/pseuds/ambiguous_nights
Summary: The Republic has been at war with Mandalore for the past six years. Things are only going to get worse.





	1. The First Domino Falls

**Author's Note:**

> Alternate universe. So much torture. Don't like, don't read.

Blood drips down Anakin’s forehead as Obi-wan carries him towards the escape pods. Their ship had been roughly yanked from hyperspace, which resulted in Anakin being slammed into the console and being knocked out. The lights had flickered out as they came under fire. The red emergency lights had lit, lending a rather ominous atmosphere to a ship already under fire. He hates those red lights. Nothing good ever happens when those lights blink on, casting shadows on reddened walls.

The alarm for a breached hull sounds. Obi-wan stops at a terminal, checking the internal cameras. A large group of Mandalorians are boarding. More than enough to take down a Jedi, regardless of how skilled they are.

Obi-wan stumbles as the ship rattles and tips, the gravity controls damaged. He shoves Anakin into one of the tiny escape pods, no room for him, though he takes a moment to bandage the wound on Anakin’s head. Anakin will survive until he wakes up. The pod closes with a soft hiss, though Obi-wan does not yet activate it. Anakin will just be shot down before he can get very far. Instead, Obi-wan sets the ship to self-destruct. The debris will hide an escape pod easily. But the Mandos will keep looking until they find someone. And that person will not be Anakin.

Obi-wan places a hand on the escape pod, eyes fixed on Anakin. He won’t let him die. Ahsoka still needs him. The Jedi and the Republic still need him. And Padme. Those two would likely be married by now if it hadn’t been for the war. Not that Obi-wan would ever say anything. Anakin needs people. Hopefully, they’ll be enough.

Obi-wan climbs into the second escape pod as the self-destruct count nears completion. He launches both escape pods just as the ship explodes, sending them flying outwards, mostly disguised by the debris. He just needs to make sure the Mandos think there was only one person onboard.

His grip tights around the joystick. This is for Anakin. He twists it slightly, nudging his pod into a large piece of debris. Knocked off course, his pod flies through space, notably out of place in the usual field of explosive debris.

He reaches for his lightsaber as the pod shutters and then steadies. He’s caught in a tractor beam. The emitter of his lightsaber presses into his chin. He should choose death before the Mandos get him. He has too much information, enough that could cause serious damage to the Republic’s war effort. But hope is a dangerous thing. He still has hope. Still believes there’s a way out. Still hopes that Anakin will pull off a daring rescue by the end of the day.

His grip loosens. He’ll fight until they have to kill him. Better dead than captured, but he won’t die without taking some of them with him.

A resounding clank reaches his ears as the pod settles in the Mando’s hanger bay. He can sense them amassing outside, likely armed with everything from blasters to knives to flamethrowers. They’ll have to be careful not to shoot each other. That could work to his advantage. He just needs to be fast.

Obi-wan leaps out of the pod, lightsaber swinging. The Mandos open fire. Darts, blasters, and cable all launch at him. He dives out of the way, positioning himself between two groups of Mandos so that they are caught in each other’s crossfire. The blue of his blade collides with a plasma shield. They aren’t stupid enough to open fire when they might hit each other. Instead, they turn to their hand to hand combat. It makes it easy for him to hit them, but he’s outnumbered. His lightsaber cuts through limbs and necks, stabs through chests and stomachs as the Force enhances his movements. He’s faster than them. Stronger than them. But he is only one man.

A cord wraps around his ankle, yanking him off his feet. He tumbles to the floor before cutting through the cord with his lightsaber. A blaster shot hits the floor next to his head. He attempts to roll to his feet but is intersected by another cord. Then another. And another. His movements slow. His strength is enough to overwhelm some of the cord holding Mandos, but as he slows, more cords attach. His lightsaber is knocked away as he falls flat, legs tied together by an abundance of metallic cord. A metal boot crushes his saber hand into the floor, easily breaking several of the delicate bones. He tries to grab his hand back but is instead met with a fist to the jaw, knocking him out.

\-------------- 

It is not often the Jedi are foolish enough to travel alone. The war between the Mandalorians and the Republic had lasted for almost six years now. What had once been a lasting conflict with a demilitarized zone between the two of them had devolved into war. Expanding their empire has been a nice goal, though the Jedi had continued to interfere too much. The Republic had built an army to keep them from growing too quickly.

And Mandalore had fought back. A war between Mandalorians, Jedi, and the Republic was inevitable. It had begun as an extended series of terrorist attacks and ambushes that the Republic was too afraid to call a war. Until they did. The Mandalorians pushed too far too fast.

Duchess Satine Kryze didn’t mind the Republic’s cowardice. It only made things easier. She hadn’t wanted all-out war with the Republic. The Republic had built up far too many resources while the Mandalorians had been consumed by civil war for the past several centuries. And then there was the Jedi. Sanctimonious. Arrogant. A real pain to deal with. Padawans aren’t problematic. Knights are bit more difficult, but nothing a fully trained and skilled Mandalorian can’t handle. Masters were to be avoided unless absolutely necessary. They could take out several Mandos before being killed. Satine had little desire to see her soldiers killed by fighting poorly, rather than fighting with intelligence. But then the Republic had decided they had gone too far. She wouldn’t back down. Mandalore would fight this war. And now, they are winning. She had gathered support from several systems that had planned on leaving the Republic to form a Separatist movement, but she had quickly hijacked that idea. The would-be Separatists joined Mandalore, lending a significant droid army to combat the Republic’s clone army. Now she rules over an empire that encompasses thousands of planets. And she does not plan on stopping.

Today, however, is an exception from her long days of strategizing and ruling. A small transport ship had fallen into one of their traps and was pulled from hyperspace by gravity wells. One Jedi had been found after the transport exploded. She smiles, though her smile is hidden behind her elaborate helmet. She wears full beskar’gam marked with blues, greens, and golds. Extra details made of white paint marked her as the leader of her people. The helmet of the previous leader, whom she had beheaded at the end of the civil war, sits on the ground beneath her feet.

She leans back on her throne as the doors opened, revealing a group of green and gold armored soldiers with a struggling Jedi in their midst. The Jedi is restrained by heavy cuffs and a collar designed to suppress the Jedi’s Force abilities. The Jedi is disheveled, but somehow manages to maintain an aura of calm and dignity even as he was shoved to his knees. One of the soldiers comes forward and offered her the man’s lightsaber. She hooks it onto her own belt, then approaches the captured Jedi. She hooks a finger under the Jedi’s chin, examining his face. “Jedi Master Obi-wan Kenobi,” she says. “General of the 212th and member of the High Council.”

“Duchess Satine Kryze. Leader of the Mandalorians and supreme commander of their armies,” Kenobi says in response. He has a small smirk on his face, even surrounded by enemies. It would be off-putting in most cases. It made it seem like he had an advantage that had yet to be revealed. But she is an expert in all aspects of combat, especially in the art of unsettling enemies and allies. He may be able to hide his fear, but he doesn’t have a way out. Not off a planet with enemies that have grown up hating the Jedi and the Republic.

“Welcome to Mandalore,” she says. “I hope you enjoy our hospitality.” She addresses her soldiers. “No limb removals. But get the information you need. I want him when you’re done.”

The Jedi’s eyes narrow. His meet her own chilly blue ones. He won’t break. She doesn’t expect him to, but she certainly won’t take that joy from her soldiers. Perhaps they could televise it. That could be most entertaining. And act as a moral booster. Jedi are rarely captured. They remember the last Mandalorian war and what happened to their kind. They choose death or are unlucky enough not to have a chance. Its been far too long since she’s had a Jedi master at her feet. She won’t waste this chance.


	2. Gratuitous Suffering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The torture begins.

Obi-wan hangs by his wrists, stripped of clothing and surrounded by Mandalorians with a frightening assortment of weapons. His toes only just reach the floor. That won’t last long if the Mando standing behind him has something to say about it. He winces as something bites into the skin at the base of his spine. Its hooks itself into place, taking control of the nerves in his legs. It could be used for torture, stimulating nerves painfully, but Mandalorians have always preferred a more hands-on method. That doesn’t mean they won’t take care to prevent escape. The neural interface activates, effectively numbing and paralyzing his body from the knees down. No longer barely standing, his weight is placed back onto his wrists, shoulders, and the broken bones of his hand. Even if he got out of the chains, he wouldn’t be going anymore, not without being able to walk, and not without the Force, still blocked by the collar.

They don’t ask him anything at first. They all know that the threat of torture will be ineffective. A knife trails down his chest. Its only a distraction if the soft whisper behind him means anything. He jerks as the whip hits his back. A neural whip, judging by the burst of electricity that follows. Its not designed to tear apart the skin. Its meant to keep him alive, not beat him to death, while still causing an excessive amount of pain.

A cry escapes his mouth as the whip lands again. It may not be doing much physical damage, though that fact doesn’t seem to reach the pain centers of his brain. It feels as though it’s tearing his skin apart, as if he’s being ripped to shreds. Another cry. He shouldn’t have accepted the Council’s mission. He screams this time, the setting on the whip turned up. He should have told them it was too dangerous, too close to unscouted space. Another strike. Anakin should be safe. A scream. He hopes Anakin is safe.

 

Pre Vizsla is not a man for battle. He is a much better manipulator and torturer. He can draw people into his influence, allow them to see him as he wishes to be seen. He draws out their tactics, adjusting to account for Jedi. The Duchess remains wary of him, but no Mandalorian is not wary of another, especially from another House. She is right to be wary. If he were a better fighter, he would challenge her for leadership. But for now, he is happy enough to plan successful battles and spend his free time in the dungeons. Most of the time, its just clones. They can be fun to play with, but their reactions become predictable after a time. All of them are far too dedicated to the Jedi. Some less so, but would still rather die than betray the Republic, despite not even knowing what it is they’re serving. Their genetics had been modified to the point where they can’t even comprehend the idea of being disloyal. Their minds start to break when pushed too far, when forced to question what they are. Those that survive shut down. It’s become predictable at this point. Even the natural born Republic officers have many of the same problems. They’ve been raised to hate the Mandalorians. They’ve seen their friends slaughtered by Mandalorians, though their friends had been just as effective in slaughtering Mandalorians. Its war. Their enemies will always be monsters intent on destroying their way of life. Vizsla won’t deny that, but the Republic can be just as monstrous and ruthless as any Mandalorian. Not that they will ever admit that.

Vizsla watches from the back corner as the men under his command whip the Jedi. The Jedi’s voice has long since been lost, leaving him to only gasp softly in pain with each new strike. He doesn’t much enjoy when no one’s screaming. He waves off his men and approaches with a bottle of water. The Jedi is covered in sweat and thick marks from the whip, though only a few broke through the skin when wielded by a particularly zealous and inexperienced soldier.

He lifts the Jedi’s chin and dribbles the water into his mouth. The Jedi is barely conscious, held there only by a cocktail of stimulants. He nods and steps away, satisfied the Jedi has gotten enough. The whip returns, and the Jedi screams again, voice reawakened by the water. Vizsla smiles.

 

Somewhere along the line, they became bored of whips. Mandalorians have notoriously short attention spans, especially when their victim becomes unresponsive. They file out of the dungeon a few hours after beginning their work. They’ll celebrate tonight and return tomorrow with new ideas.

Vizsla doesn’t mind. Now he has time to himself. He pours a bit of water down the Jedi’s throat then sprays enough on his face to rouse the man. Kenobi’s eyes open slowly, staring at him with disturbing clarity despite the redness and the tear tracks down him face. He changes the settings on the neural interface, changing it from numbness to pain. Kenobi shudders, his whole body shaking. Such devices can make it feel as if one is being burnt alive. He adjusts the area of effect, allowing the interface to stimulate all the nerves in its reach, which consists mostly of anything below the waist. Kenobi’s body spasms. His cries become vocal again, though raspy from prolonged use.

“I would like to know where your medical stations are located, Obi-wan,” Vizsla says. “Or anything of use, really. At which point, I’ll turn off the interface and let you spend the night lying down. How does that sound?”

Kenobi doesn’t respond. He’s breathing heavily now, his muscles tense.

“Anything at all. Just a bit of information. How about the name of your student? Or his student? Come on. We already know the answer. Just talk to us. Tell me what we already know, Obi-wan, and I’ll make the pain stop for the night. Come on. It’ll be okay.”

Kenobi is shaking his head. It’s a response, which is more than they were getting earlier. He’ll call that progress. The others won’t, but he can recognize a step in the right direction. He turns up the input, increasing the pain. Kenobi screams now, though its almost silent. Blood dribbles from his lips, no doubt the man bit through his tongue by now.

“Just tell me your name. That’s easy enough. Come on, Obi-wan. Answer me.”

More shaking. Still refusing.

“Then we’ll just wait.”

 

“Kenobi,” Obi-wan rasps out several hours later. The fire consuming his body stops. Giving in earlier wouldn’t have been convincing. The Mando smiles at him and releases the hook holding his chains, letting him fall to the floor in a puddle of his own refuse as his legs give out and his shoulders scream in agony. His lower legs are numb again, immobile. He can ignore the pain. He’s been trained to. So long as Vizsla thinks he’s giving in, he’ll have a better chance as catching the man off guard. It’s a plan that could take weeks. And it’s the only one with any chance of success.

“Good job, little Jedi. Sleep well,” the Mando says.

The stimulants haven’t worn off. He won’t be sleeping anytime soon and they both know it. He manages to pull himself into the far corner, slightly away from the rather disgusting puddle and the gently smiling Mando. He’s done his job well enough. The Mando believes he’s slipped, that he’s broken just a bit. It would be the first step on breaking fully, at giving in to all their demands, though it would take time to run out of innocuous information to give. What may seem like a way to save himself a bit of pain would only open the flood gates, allow him to give increasingly valuable information just to escape the pain. He won’t give in that easily. He knows how Mandalore used to torture Jedi. He knows their strategies. But he’s a Jedi. He’ll find a way to outlast this.

 

The soldiers return just over an hour later as the night seemingly ends, though he has no way of knowing if the sun has risen. They yank his arms up again, chaining them to the ceiling. The dose of stimulants follows, pulling him from the half meditation he had achieved in an attempt to replenish some energy. It hadn’t been very effective. A powerful jet of cold water hits him, leaving him shivering, though the smell that had started to permeate the cell is washed away.

Today the knife on his chest is not a distraction. It digs into the skin before slowly peeling it away. Another cut, just as shallow as the first before the knife is under his skin and tearing it. Skinning him alive. Blood follows, as does a quick injection of medication likely to keep the open sores from acquiring a lethal infection. The work is slow, the knife wielder spending minutes digging into pressure points and playing with nerves. Deeper cuts follow, littering the expanse of his bare skin. It hurts like hell, though his cries are barely more than whispers and his body responds with twitches. Obi-wan wants to scream, to be heard through the pain, but there’s no moisture left for his voice to work. It’s been two days since his capture with only minimal water provided. Enough to keep him alive. They seem to be very good at that.

His thoughts are interrupted by the voice of one of the Mandos, not speaking to him but to the others. “You think this counts as ‘limb removal’?” the Mando asks. The cold tip of a knife presses into his cock. He tries to shift away but has no leverage with which to move.

“Maybe… Better keep that on the table though. Just in case. We’ll ask her tonight,” the other says.

That’s a reason for relief, though not one that could last long. He really doesn’t want to deal with those complications.

The knife wielder shrugs. “Supposed to make them more docile.”

“It’s a Jedi. They don’t do docile. Except when they’re idiots. Remember that padawan we had in here a few months back?”

The knife wielder laughs. “That kid could scream. Though they talked too much.”

“Hey Kenobi!” Fingers snap in front of his face, drawing his drifting attention back to the present. “Want to hear what we did to that padawan?”

“We killed them, obviously. But not right away. They liked to talk about your ‘Jedi Code’, about peace and serenity and all that crap. We cut out their tongue. You wouldn’t believe how much blood was involved. And they cried and tried to beg for mercy. We left them out for the soldiers to have, the ones that want a bit of revenge for the family you Jedi have killed. We didn’t even recognize the body in the morning.”

A lightsaber ignites. Its not his. The humming is lower, indicative of a low powered, single crystal blade. One usually entrusted to padawans since they didn’t have the skills of a master. The green blade hovers in front of his face, close enough to singe a few stray hairs. “They killed them with this blade.”

The blade brushes again his chest, leaving behind a mild burn. Another pass, closer this time, leaving a more severe burn. “They removed their limbs, one by one. But your lightsaber blades cauterize the wounds. Keep you from bleeding out too quickly. It’s a nice touch. I’m sure the padawan appreciated it.”

Another burn, this one to his thigh. Then his ass. Then his back. Blisters form, the skin bubbling with heat. No tears to waste now. He shrieks with the next strike, this one leaving a burn on his side. The Mandos laugh.

 

“Just tell me your student’s name,” Vizsla says, when the rest of the Mandos leave. The interface sets his legs on fire. He has to stick to his plan, has to keep himself from breaking while still giving the appearance of doing so. It’s a fine line to walk.

“Anakin,” is the response given several hours later.

 

The Mandos decide to play with his lightsaber this time. The high powered, multicrystal blade leaves far more severe burns. The whip is brought back again, a higher setting then before. The knife wielder comes back with a larger, serrated blade that’s dipped in some sort of mild poison that makes the cuts burn.

 

“How about the name of your battalion?”

“The 212th.”

 

Electricity. It leaves burns, not as severe as a lightsaber, but painful regardless. His screams echo in that small cell as electricity flows though his limbs, leaving the muscles to spasm painfully for hours afterwards.

 

He hasn’t slept in days. Vizsla is back, more relaxed then before. Becoming complacent, used to the schedule Obi-wan has designed. He only needs a few more days, though he’s beginning to wonder if he’ll survive that long. Yes, they were told to keep him alive. But accidents happen. He doubts he’ll be in any condition to move if he doesn’t act soon.

“The man who trained you?”

“Jinn.”

The pain doesn’t stop this time. He shudders as Vizsla brushes his sweaty hair from his forehead. “I know I said you only needed one thing. But just one more. Who else did Jinn train?”

“They’re both dead.”

“I didn’t ask that. Come on, Obi-wan. Just one more answer.”

A question the Mandalorians wouldn’t have the answer to, not without hacking Temple records. Xanatos and Feemor have no public records, not after their deaths. Its still worthless information. But it isn’t something Vizsla knows. It’s the next step. Another crack in his armor. And he has to chose it.

“Xanatos and Feemor.”

“Good.” The chains unhook, letting him fall. There is just a moment between when the pain ends and when the numbness begins. A moment he can take advantage of, if he’s fast enough. But not yet.

 

The knives are back again. One of them was stabbed into his shoulder and left there. It burns terribly, leaving him hesitant to move at all. Another is at his back, a small blowtorch in hand. “What if we break his arm?”

“Do you have a hammer?”

“Not with me. Got boots though.”

“I’m not letting him down.”

“He’s not going anywhere. Don’t be a coward.”

“Fine.”

The chains release and Obi-wan falls to the floor. “Hold him still.” Obi-wan tries to crawl away, but a heavy foot on his chest hold him still. Another foot holds his wrist down. And then his arm breaks, the bone snapping. And he screams.

 

Standing is barely possible. His legs won’t respond, won’t help him stand. He can only rely on one cuffed hand to hold him up, the other arm too painful to use. Tonight is his only chance before the damage becomes too much to handle. It’ll be a few hours before Vizsla shows up. Too long. Just have to be patient. Just hold out a little longer. Little longer.

 

“You aren’t looking to good, Obi-wan,” Vizsla says. Despite the attempts at preventing infection, fever has set in. The knife wounds are red and swollen, warm to the touch. His legs burn with the interface. “Tell me. How many clones serve the Republic?”

“Millions. Maybe billions.”

“I want a number.”

“It fluctuates.”

“Tell me, Obi-wan. How many serve on board a typical Jedi cruiser?”

Too delicate, bordering on important information. But if he’s fast enough it won’t matter. Besides, its not like Vizsla will live to check. He resists. Just enough to make it seem real. Like giving in. “25,000,” he whispers, not loud enough to be caught by cameras, but enough to answer.

The chains release. The pain stops. Vizsla is relaxed, too slow in reactivating the paralysis. Obi-wan dives forward, nearly collapsing, but manages to wrap an arm around Vizsla’s throat. His neck snaps. Time to escape.

Obi-wan pulls on Vizsla’s armor. They’re close enough in height that it fits well enough. He pulls on the helmet and pushes the door open. He leaves Vizsla in the corner, turning his face from the door to hopefully make the illusion of his continued imprisonment last a bit longer. He grabs the interface control and sticks it in his pocket. The armor plates provide a bit of support for the broken bones in his arm and hands, though its rather difficult to hold a blaster. He’ll just have to hope no one sees through the disguise.

He sticks to the shadows, leaving the dungeon behind. His senses are on high alert, though the Force collar is still stuck around his neck. Its hidden by Vizsla’s armor but he has no way to cut it off. Vizsla wasn’t stupid enough to bring Obi-wan’s lightsaber into the room with him.

Of course, now that he’s out of the cell, he’s realizing just how flawed his plan is. He hadn’t worked much beyond get out, find a ship, and run. Not that he could have made a better plan. With next to no information about the palace and no chance to learn more about it, he’d done the best with what he had.

“Vizsla!” a voice calls out, drawing him to a stop. Obi-wan turns around, trying to seem relaxed. “How’d the session go?”

He does his best to imitate Vizsla’s voice, hoping the vocoder in the helmet will disguise the damage to his voice and his identity. “Good,” he says, trying to keep his answers short and simple. Less chance at slipping up.

“You okay? You sound funny.”

“Sore throat. I have to go. Need to report.”

He’s certain the man doesn’t buy it, though the Mando nods along. “Well, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Obi-wan nods. The alarm is about to be raised. He’s been found out, though this particular Mando is likely trying to get some backup before taking him on. Using a swift kick and punch, he knocks the man out. He pushes the body to the side of the hallway. There’s nowhere to hide it. He’ll just have to run.

 

Obi-wan makes his way into the hangar. All the ships are locked in place, but he might have a chance at overriding the locks. He’s about to get to work when a blaster presses against his head. “You’re no Mando,” Satine Kryze says. He puts his hands up, backing slowly away from the computer he was about to access. “Take off your helmet.”

Time to see if he can beat the Mand’alor in combat. He strikes out, using his legs and one useful arm, knocking the blaster away and trying to hide his weakness from her. He has years of training. But he’s injured, starving, and dehydrated. Only one option left. He runs for the edge of the hangar, the Duchess close behind. Fear drags at his steps, but mental discipline pulls him forward. He doesn’t want to die, but this is the only sure way to protect what he knows. Anakin can’t save him from Mandalore. This is the only way to protect Anakin and Ahsoka, his troops, and the rest of the Jedi.

He leaps into the open air, praying there’s enough of a drop to kill him. The cable that wraps around him makes the thought moot. His arms are pinned to his body and his legs tied together. He swings back and slams into the wall below the hangar. Vizsla’s armor protects him from breaking more bones, but it certainly leaves bruises. He wiggles inside the cable’s grip, trying to get out. Electricity flows down the wire, eliciting a cry of pain from him. “Stop wiggling,” the Duchess says as she drags him up and over the edge. The cable is connected to one of her wrist gauntlets. She taps a button, sending another spark up the wire. His body spasms where he remains on the hangar floor. Satine kicks off his helmet before dragging him through the hallways. He finally decides to remain limp after numerous shocks and achieving almost complete certainty that he can’t wiggle his way out.

They come to a stop in the middle of the throne room. He lays beneath her feet, held in place by a heavy boot on his chest. “Anyone care to explain?” she asks to a room full of armored Mandalorians.

One steps forward. “Vizsla was running the interrogation,” he says.

“And where is Vizsla?”

“He’s dead.”

“Get me the holo footage. Its not like Vizsla to be so careless.”

“Yes, Mand’alor.”

“Good. Dismissed.”

The room empties, leaving just the Jedi and the Duchess. She searches through his pockets until she pulls the interface control out. “You’re staying with me until I figure out what went wrong.”

The neural interface activates, leaving his lower legs useless again. He’s becoming rather concerned about that. No doubt the muscles will start to atrophy soon, but there isn’t anything to be done. He keeps his head off the floor as he’s dragged through more hallways and into a warm, but large room. “I don’t have to tell you that fighting me would likely result in complete paralysis, do I?” He shakes his head and remains still as she works.

 

She loops a larger collar over the Force inhibitor and attaches it to a short leash of chain attached to the floor. She removes the cable and Vizsla’s armor before binding his hands together. She checks the interface, making sure its undamaged, noting the burns and cuts covering his skin as well as the broken bones and the stab wound in his shoulder. There’s a slight clamminess to his skin, indicative of a low fever. It will only get worse if she leaves it alone. She orders an antibiotic and sits down to wait.

The Jedi remains sprawled on the carpet, not moving from where she left him. He’s shivering slightly and is probably leaving blood all over the floor, but it’s not a bad addition to the décor. Its always good to leave her citizens just a little concerned about what she does in her free time.

Bo-Katan Kryze comes in a few minutes later with antibiotics and a holo projector. “I also brought a stimulant. No need to stop the sleep deprivation just because he escaped.” Satine nods. Her younger sister removes her helmet and injects the Jedi. The Jedi shudders slightly, pulled away from sleep and back to unnatural wakefulness. She hands her the holo projector. The two sit on the couch, curled next to each other.

The projector activates creating a three dimensional blue-tinged image of Kenobi hanging from the ceiling surrounded by Mandos. She scrolls forward a few hours until Vizsla appears. The conversation is mostly one sided. Satine scans through the torture sessions and reads the transcripts. “Vizsla got sloppy. Kenobi wasn’t breaking. He was lolling Vizsla into complacency,” Bo-Katan says.

“Impressive. Though I suppose Vizsla had it coming,” Satine says.

“What do we do now? More torture?”

“Is the deprivation tank still working?”

“I can get it set up.”

“He needs medical attention, or the bones will start to heal wrong.”

“Is that a concern?”

“Could be. Depends on what I want him for afterwards. If he’s still sane.”

“He’s not unattractive.”

“True. He’s also recognizable. It could be quite demoralizing for the Jedi to see him at my feet.”

“A Jedi pet?”

“A possibility.”

“I’ll send a medic with a bone knitter.”

“Are you coming to the dinner tomorrow?” Satine asks.

“I will. My troops aren’t quite healed up yet, but we’ll ship out in a week or so.”

“Good. We need you out there.”

“Be safe, sister. Good luck.”

They lean together, foreheads touching. “Always come back to me, sister.”

“I always will.”


	3. An Execution, a Video, and a Plan

Obi-wan lays on the floor, unable to sleep and too tired to move. A medic is patching the stab wound in his shoulder and knitting the broken bones. He watches as Satine settles on the couch, one eye on him and another on a data pad. She doesn’t ask questions, doesn’t demand answers.

The medic leaves. It’s just the Duchess. He pulls his legs back and tries to rub the lingering pain from the joints. Everything hurts. He just wants to sleep. But they won’t let him sleep. His heartbeat is too fast. The stimulants have to stop soon. They have to let him sleep.

“Drink,” Satine says, tossing a mostly empty water bottle to him. He stares at it for a moment. If Satine wanted to poison him or drug him, she would do it. Either he swallowed it willingly or she injected it. At least swallowing meant it took more time to get into his bloodstream. Not much more, but some. He grabs the water bottle, taking small sips and hoping there isn’t something particularly vile in it. Satine is staring at him, eyes narrowed.

“You tried to kill yourself,” she says. “Most of us would call that cowardly. Though you didn’t try once you were out of the cell. You tried once you had no other alternatives. But you weren’t trying to escape pain. You practically embraced pain in order to trick Vizsla. You’re trying to protect something. What do you know that makes you desperate enough to try dying? I didn’t see fear in your eyes. You’re not afraid of us or death. Not a coward then, but still foolish. We’ll see if we can’t drag it out of you sometime.” She leans back again, calculating. “Would you like to watch tonight’s executions? You might recognize a few of them.”

His eyes flicker towards her. He’s not supposed to interact. Interaction take too much focus, drains too much energy. But he is afraid of who he might see. And afraid of not knowing. It could be Anakin. His distraction could have failed. Or it could be any other Jedi, someone he may know even. Ahsoka. Bant. Quinlan. Almost all his childhood friends are dead. He’s seen too many of them die. He almost says no, but the anxiety of not knowing who it is will only wear at him.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” she says as unlocks his chain from the floor and pulls him out onto the balcony. He flops down in the chair she throws him into. He shivers in the cold night air, made suddenly far more aware of his nudity. A blanket would be nice. So would some pants but wishing isn’t going to make things better. The Duchess certainly won’t be showing any mercy.

There’s a platform out in the courtyard several floors below them. Poles stick out of it, some tall and connected together, others shorter and separate. A Mandalorian in black armor with gold accents stands to the side with a rifle in hand. “Black is for justice,” Satine says. “And gold is for vengeance. Vengeance against the Jedi, the Republic. We did offer them a chance, you know. If they had joined us, we would have let them live. They chose this. And you will watch.”

The first to be led out are a small group of clones. Obi-wan’s heart drops when he sees Longshot among them. He had wondered what happened when the clone had been declared MIA a few weeks back. They’d scoured the battlefield for him without success. Though a part of him knows they didn’t spend as much time searching as they would if Longshot had been a Jedi. It’s the part he has to ignore if he’s going to go into battle with them at his side.

The clones’ hands are tied to the short poles. The black armored Mando offers them blindfolds. They all decline.

Then comes a human girl, no older than sixteen, and dressed in Jedi robes. Blood drips down her neck, likely from a torn out padawan braid if he is right about the girl’s identity. She had disappeared weeks ago. They’d found her master killed and the troops slaughtered. They hadn’t found her body.

Instinct calls for him to fight, to rescue her. He makes an aborted attempt at standing, almost forgetting the uselessness of his legs. A mild spark runs through the collar on his neck. A warning to behave. But he doesn’t want to watch this. Doesn’t want to watch as the girl’s neck and hands are tied with rope. His eyes close until there’s another shock. Satine smiles at him. “You’re supposed to watch, Kenobi.”

The padawan’s face turns blue as the rope is tightened and yanked over the top of two connected poles. The end is tied to a hook on the ground, leaving her to kick and flail in the vain hope of trying to breathe. She can’t.

He tries in vain to hold back tears as the girl’s struggles slow and her body relaxes. The clones are not treated so cruelly. A quick rifle shot to the head kills each instantly. The bodies of the clones are removed. The Jedi remains, body swinging in the breeze.

 ---------------

Anakin stands on Coruscant for the first time in months. He had woken up in an escape pod with a hastily wrapped wound on his head and utterly alone. Drifting in open space for days until he had finally been in range of a Republic outpost, he had only just made it there on the pod’s limited supplies and barely avoided Mandalorian space. They had called him back to Coruscant for a proper debriefing after he told them that Obi-wan was still missing. No other escape pod was found, though any Republic ships in the area have been told to keep a look out. It had been a discussion the Council wanted to have in person, fearful of a possible interception. Anakin had been thrilled to come back, though the excitement was dulled by the reason for it. He had arrived alone in a starfighter with special permission to use restricted hyperlanes in order to get back quickly.

Now, he waits outside the Council chambers, trying to keep his emotion from running wild. Years of war had tamed his recklessness, but it did little for his emotional control. He would never find the inner peace that Jedi strove for. Few Jedi could after fighting for so long. Relationships have become something of an open secret. Jedi needed more emotional support than the Healers and distant masters could provide. The Council wouldn’t acknowledge it. Jedi still kept romantic relationships secret for fear of Mandalore finding out and using them as leverage. Everyone had much more pressing things to deal with.

The Council doors open, revealing several holograms, Master Windu and Yoda, and the empty chair of Obi-wan Kenobi. The communication used by the Council is encrypted enough that they do not fear for their holographic members.

“What happened?” Windu asks, intense as always, though worn down. At some point, he had exchanged Jedi robes for armor and more battle practical clothing. Obi-wan hadn’t. He had incorporated armor into his robes, but he hadn’t forgone the traditional Jedi style. Anakin had, though his dark leather outfit still had hints of the traditional Jedi style. Wearing Jedi robes painted a target on their backs. Some padawans wore full clone armor, mostly because their masters were terrified of what would happen to them if they were seen as Jedi. Obi-wan had explained that he had fought too hard to be a Jedi to deny that identity. Anakin had shrugged, letting Obi-wan do as he chose. Mandalorians didn’t need Jedi robes to identify Jedi. Supposedly, they knew a Jedi by they way they walked. In truth, Anakin was certain Mandalorians memorized the faces of as many Jedi as Mandalore knew of.

“We were pulled out of hyperspace. The inertial dampers failed, and I was knocked out. Obi-wan must have put me in the escape pod. I don’t know what happened to him. The logs I have from state the ship was set to self-destruct on Obi-wan’s authorization. The hull was breached, though any security logs were too damaged to view. The pod was launched before more data could be collected. I have to assume Obi-wan made it to a pod. Our bond is still intact,” Anakin says.

“Can you contact him?” Windu asks.

“We’re too far away. If we were on the same planet, maybe. But he’s not being held on Coruscant.”

“Obviously. We don’t have time for you to search the galaxy. We’ll have to hope one of our contacts hears something. But Skywalker, you need to know something. If Obi-wan is on Mandalore, we won’t be getting him back.”

“We don’t know if he was captured. He could still be out there in an escape pod. Without a hyperdrive, it could take days for him to make an appearance.” The Councilors glance at each other, the atmosphere growing tense. “You know something I don’t,” Anakin says.

“You wouldn’t have escaped if the Mandos hadn’t found someone in the wreckage. If Obi-wan was caught, it could have been assumed that he was the only one on board. Your ship was small enough there would only have been one person on board, possibly two, but perhaps not. They wouldn’t have searched for you as well, not if Obi-wan made enough noise and distracted them.”

“You think he sacrificed himself for me.”

“It is not unlikely. You are very attached to each other.”

Anakin tries not to tense up. The Jedi may be more relaxed about attachment, but anytime they mention it, it sounds like an accusation. He needs to respond logically, to show that attachment didn’t interfere with their decisions. Allowing personal feelings to interfere with a military operation is still unacceptable. “It’s better that one of us got caught instead of both. I was in no position to be a distraction, or I would have made sure Obi-wan made it back.”

“Thank you for your report, Skywalker. You are dismissed,” Windu says.

“Masters, may I ask something of you?”

Windu nods.

“Please allow me to help rescue him if the chance arrives. I would be a valuable asset to any operation.”

“Allow that, we will. A strong Jedi, you are. Need you, Obi-wan will,” Yoda says.

“Thank you, masters.”

 ---------------

The sun rises. The body remains, swaying in the wind. Obi-wan mourns for her then tries to let go. He can’t help but feel responsible for her death. It’s an irrational emotion. The Mandalorians would have killed her regardless of his presence. Yet she is dead, and he was forced to watch. Now her body swings, taunting him as the sun lays claim to the city of Sundari through the shields of the biodome.

Feeling returns to his legs. He tries to ignore the pain this brings, the burns and damaged skin screaming at him anew. Satine wants him to walk, wants to see him stumble. He staggers to his feet as she tugs on the end of his chain. Though its more of a leash in this case. She blindfolds him before they leave, deciding he’s seen enough of the palace. He’ll still try to count steps, but she’ll likely lead him in the most roundabout way possible, just to make it all last longer. His hands are tied behind him. He won’t be able to catch himself if he falls. And he will fall. That’s the point of this. The Mandalorians want to see the Jedi, to see what’s been done to him. No doubt the rest of the Jedi will get footage of the event, either by spies and slicing or Mandalore simply delivering it.

He can hear them from behind the closed door. The chain jingles, then pulls lightly. He follows as the door creaks open. The voices are louder now. He wishes he had never learned Mando’a. He wishes he didn’t understand their words, didn’t feel them slithering up his spine. Hands graze against him, grabbing and pulling and pinching and bruising. He stumbles when the chain is yanked, throwing him off balance. He topples, barely managing to keep his chin from slamming into the duracrete. Satine is telling him to get up. He tries. He really does, but they keep pushing him back down. She keeps pulling. He keeps stumbling, keeps falling. Something wet and warm hits him, splattering across his skin. He hits the floor and scrambles to his feet. Too slow. His knees are bleeding now. Another splatter. Another. He doesn’t want to guess what it is, though the smell is starting to reach his senses. A stray arm slams into his nose, making it bleed. Too much noise. Too loud. Can’t see. Can’t breathe. Too many hands, too close.

A door slams. And its quiet again. His breathing is loud and fast. He tries to breath, to slow down, but the touches linger, the hatred of a crowd only held back by the Duchess. He flinches away when the Duchess touches him. Too much. She keeps touching him, threading fingers through his hair and letting them trail over his sweaty skin. Too much. Can’t breathe. Need to breathe. And he’s crying, not sure where the tears came from, but he’s so tired and so sick of this.

He falls again, as Satine drags him forward. The collar remains, though the chain is removed, as are the bindings on his wrists. He’s shoved into a box too small, too quiet, too dark, and too warm. And the door closes.

 ----------------

Ahsoka lays on the couch in the quarters she shares with her master surfing the holonet, trying to distract herself from what had been a miserable week. She avoids the news articles. There is nothing quite so miserable as the news. She scrolls through a series of artwork someone had created based on one of the books she read recently. She used to draw when she was younger. There isn’t time for it anymore. Other people have the time for it though, so she enjoys what they create. A particularly lovely image of a Togruta with wings is saved to her own files to look at later. Her species has never had wings, but there is something about flying that has always been appealing. There’s a freedom to be found in the skies, though it’s a feeling that has long since faded. She only flies in fights, shooting down droids and Mandos. She had only been fighting for three years. They hadn’t let her go out into the field until she turned fourteen. Part of her wishes they had never let her, despite her childish desire to be part of the action. She had thought war was the path to glory. Its not. Its terrible. Its endless. She doesn’t want to set foot on another battlefield. But desertion is punishable by death, even for Jedi.

Her datapad beeps, alerting her to a message. She opens her messages and frowns. Its from one of her non-Jedi friends who lives on Coruscant. The young senator aid had become a friend of hers during one of her senator guarding sessions. They hadn’t spoken in months, the aid too busy and too afraid of being seen as bias for being friends with a Jedi. The message asked her if she had seen the attachment. She wasn’t sure what the aid was on about, but she hoped it wasn’t something explicit. She had gotten enough of those messages until she had her comm number restricted so no one she didn’t know could call her. There were a lot of creepy people out there. She didn’t want to deal with them. But it could be important. Senator aids could hear things. Most of them were practically invisible to the senators and higher ranking officials.

She clicks on the link. A video pops up. Its an image of a crown in a large city. The city is tinged blue, likely a result of the biodome that makes up the sky. No one had seen Mandalore’s capital, but few planets had cities in biodomes and only Mandalore had crowds of humans in beskar’gam. She presses play, though a bad feeling is creeping up her spine. The crowd begins to move and chant in Mando’a. She recognizes the Mando’a word for Jedi. And then the door opens, revealing the duchess of Mandalore in her own beskar’gam, without her helmet, and a man trailing behind her, blindfolded and led by a leash. It takes her only a moment to identify the copper hair and beard. Her blood goes cold as the Force confirms her thought. Master Obi-wan. Alive and on Mandalore.

“Master!” she shrieks as she runs from the room. She tears through the halls, Force enhanced speed carrying her to the hanger. There aren’t any Jedi to frown at her for such undignified behavior. They’re all at war or dead.

She leaps into a speeder, keying in her authorization code, and guns the engine. She tears through the skies of Coruscant towards the senate apartment buildings. She can sense Anakin in the building, likely with Padme. Permission to land comes from C-3PO. She jumps out of the speeder, nearly slamming into Anakin, who had been more than a little alarmed to sense her terror over their bound. She hands him the datapad, unable to get out the words for a proper apology for disturbing his time with Padme. Anakin disappears into one of the rooms, the bound between them going silent. Padme comes out of her bedroom, fully dressed with clothes not nearly as skewed as Anakin’s were. She doesn’t ask. She has no interest in what her master gets up to with the woman he loves.

“Ahsoka? What’s going on?” Padme asks.

The senator is like a third parent to Ahsoka, always willing to talk with her about anything. They originally had a professional relationship, one where she tutored Ahsoka occasionally on politics. A more personal relationship had begun when Ahsoka had needed some advice that her master had been unable to give. Certain biological differences between males and females had meant Ahsoka wanted to search out someone who had experienced something similar, even if they weren’t the same species. They had become friends, someone Ahsoka could talk to when most of her friends were off planet. They went out to nice dinners and wore fancy clothes. It was luxuriant habit Ahsoka wouldn’t give up. She already had to wear armor almost everyday of her life. If she wanted to dress in silks and jewels when she had free time, that was her choice. Besides, Padme made it fun. But that’s not why she came.

“There’s a video,” Ahsoka says. “Of Master Obi-wan.”

Padme pales. “Is it…”

“I only saw the first few seconds. Its bad, Padme. Its really bad.”

Padme wraps her arms around Ahsoka as she begins to cry. “I’m sorry, Ahsoka. I’m so sorry.”

Anakin storms past them a few minutes later, taking Ahsoka’s speeder and disappearing towards the Temple. Ahsoka sits down on Padme’s couch. “Can I stay?”

Padme nods. “Though Bail might come by if this video is widespread. Where did you get it from?”

“Pilk’til. She’s an aid to the senator of Binal.”

“If the aids have it, it won’t take long for the everyone else to know.”

“I don’t want them to see it.”

“I know.”

“They shouldn’t watch it.”

Ahsoka leans against Padme, enjoying the comfort of another presence. Her instincts demand she not be alone. Anakin won’t be good company when he’s upset, but Padme is less likely to need to take her anger out violently. She can still sense her rage though. Padme will help. She’ll find a way to help.

 -----------------

Anakin tears apart droids in the training salles. No one is willing to be his sparring partner, not when he’s like this. Even he knows that a rescue attempt would be impossible, though he would never admit that. He needs them to have hope, to try something, because he doesn’t know what to do. He could take a ship to Mandalore, fight through a hundred Mandos then die when the rest arrive or be captured too. If only he hadn’t been unconscious. He would have shoved his Master into that escape pod and found a way to get himself out too. But it’s too late. There’s no saving Obi-wan. Not from Mandalore. He knows it. Everyone knows it, but he doesn’t want them to admit it. He doesn’t want them to acknowledge his own hopelessness.

He collapses onto the training floor, trying to ignore the images that surface from that video. A video of the streets of Mandalore filled with Mandos in full beskar’gam, leering and yelling at his master as he’s paraded through the streets nude, blindfolded, and on a leash. He’s too thin and covered in too many cuts and scabs. Anakin couldn’t make it through the whole video, having to leave so he could throw up his lunch. He hadn’t wanted to send it to the Council, hadn’t wanted them to see Obi-wan humiliated and alone. But they needed to know, needed to see if there was anything in the video that help them get Obi-wan back. They would find out eventually. Better that they know sooner in case there is a chance to save him. There wasn’t anything useful, but it had led to a lot of quiet meals, most of them offered in comfort from one Jedi to another.

A hand falls on his shoulder. Mace Windu of all people, surprisingly less stern and frightening when he doesn’t have to lead the Council. They may not get along, but they can recognize the loss in each other, in the hole left behind by Obi-wan.

“The video,” Mace says. “It’s on the holonet, direct from the Mandos themselves.”

“What does that mean for him?” Anakin asks, unmoving as he stares at the floor.

“The public could demand his release, not that it would help much. The Mandos don’t negotiate with us. We’re already fighting a war against them. There’s not much else we can do. For the Jedi, its disturbing to know the kind of fate that awaits us if captured. And it has lowered morale. If someone as powerful as Kenobi can be…” Mace trails off. “The public is less confident in us, though I think we can count on them demanding rescue. That could help, could force the Senate to try negotiating, but it could also backfire if we are seen as ineffective and unable to rescue him.”

“Rescue still not an option?”

“We can’t even get near the planet, no matter the size of the craft. I’d be slightly more willing to try something if I knew we’d only be killed for trying. But if you’re captured, I can’t imagine what they could do to the two of you.”

“I may have a plan.”

“I’m afraid to ask.”

“It might be worth a shot.”


	4. Another Way

The walls press against his shoulders and into his back and chest and just barely brush the tip of his nose. The ceiling weighs on his head. He can bend his knees just slightly forward to create just a bit more space around his head. The heat has only made him sweat, the droplets rolling across his skin and into his eyes. There’s not enough space to bend his arms to wipe it away. Its not total sensory deprivation. Obi-wan knows the Mandalorians are capable of it, though madness is quick to follow. The technology to disrupt the input of the senses to the brain has existed for years, though it was tightly controlled the moment the Republic realized what it could be used for. It’s the same technology used in the neural interface digging into his back. The Duchess didn’t activate it, thankfully. However, the box is torture enough on its own. He’ll hallucinate soon enough. They won’t take him out in a few hours. That would ruin the effect. It could be days. Possibly weeks if there’s some way for them to keep him hydrated. Though his muscles would likely give out by then. How long can he stand for? Two days, maybe three if he’s really lucky. Not long. Unless this box tips over. A possibility, if the Duchess wants him alive.

His panic had faded, though not before he had tried to claw his way out. His nails are broken and bleeding, though its not much more notable then the rough material of the box rubbing into still open wounds and the stinging as sweat reaches them. At least the stab wound is closed and the bones of his arm and hands are fixed, though he’s not sure why. The stab wound could have been fatal, but not the broken bones. Why do the Mandos want him to heal properly?

He’d rather not think about that, but he needs something to keep his mind occupied. The darkness is absolute. The silence even more so. There is only the quiet ringing in his ears, ever present after months of explosions on battlefields and standing a little too close to cannons, and the sound of his breath, finally slowed along with his racing heart. He has control of himself again, though only to the extent the Mandalorians will allow it.

He lets his knees bend, trying to give other muscles a chance to support his weight. He’ll let himself meditate, try to hold off the hallucinations and regain some energy. They won’t let him out. They aren’t that merciful.

 ------------

Bo-katan leans back on the couch. She’s reviewed the videos of the tortured Jedi several times over. “He’s not breaking, he’s shattering. At this rate he won’t be able to even make coherent sentences by the end of the week.”

“Madness is rather inconvenient. There’s no information to be obtained,” Satine says. “What do you think of alternate methods?”

“What are you thinking?” Bo-katan leans over Satine’s shoulder and sees the image of a young Jedi on Satine’s datapad. “Isn’t that Skywalker?”

Satine nods and hands the datapad over to her younger sister. “His former student. Reports says they’re very close.”

“There’s no way we could pick him up. We were ridiculously lucky to pick up Kenobi. And he killed several of us before getting him. They won’t be leaving Jedi without a battalion at their back. We wouldn’t get him without severe losses.”

“He’s too difficult to capture. He’s still on the kill list. Doing otherwise is asking for trouble.” She swipes across the screen of the datapad revealing a second image, this one of a Togruta teenager. “Skywalker’s student. Ahsoka Tano. Younger. Less skilled. Less experienced. Reports say Kenobi handles some of her training. There’s likely to be some bound between them.”

“How do we get her?”

“She’s a kid. She’s more likely to leave their fortress to explore Coruscant.”

“We’ve had some difficulties with our spies on Coruscant. It’s getting more difficult to keep our transmissions hidden, but I’ll make it happen.”

“Keep things simple. Don’t lead a trail back to us.”

“Are we framing anyone in particular?”

“Maybe slavers. She’s young. Force sensitive. An ideal candidate if I ever heard of one. Though we’ll have to file her teeth. Togrutas are carnivores. I don’t want her biting through arteries. Or fingers.”

Bo-katan nods.

“I want her here by the end of the week. The box will do its work by then.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll get it done.”

“Good.”

Bo-katan holds up the datapad, eyeing the slightly scowling teenager. It’s a photo their spies took a few weeks back after a costly victory. She’s no fan of the Jedi, but Skywalker’s unorthodox tactics have led to enough Jedi victories that she has to respect him. That doesn’t mean she wouldn’t gladly torture him to death or stab him in his sleep, but it does prevent her from poisoning him. After all, poisoning is no way to face an enemy. In sleep is acceptable, though she would much prefer a more active fight. No true warrior would ever her allow her that close, regardless of the disadvantage that sleep provides. It will always be in a way that would allow him to fight back, if he’s fast enough or clever enough. Nothing so cowardly as bioweapons or poison. All people should die by blaster or heavy orbital bombardment. But for now, she needs to focus on his student. She downloads videos and the file their spies and slicers have compiled.

Tano is seventeen years old, female Togruta. She wields two lightsabers, one green and a shorter yellow one. Her lightsaber form is Jar’kai ataru, which fits with her small size. She’s been taught to be faster than her opponents. It’s a good choice. She’d never win in a fight of brute strength. There’s not much armor on her, though her red dress and leggings are likely treated with a blaster resistant resin. She does wear gauntlets and armored boots. She’s probably still growing too fast for more permanent armor. The Republic won’t pay for armor that she’ll outgrow within a month. It does make her more vulnerable, but the armor she has seems to be incorporated into her fighting style. The videos show her kicks reinforced by the plastoid, strong enough to break bones. The gauntlets protect when fighting bladed oponents, which some Mandos favor. On the Jedi threat scale, Bo-katan would assign her at about a six. Higher than most padawans and some knights, though lower than older knights and most masters. Though some of Jedi aren’t promoted for their sword skills. She’s not a fan of that kind of backwards system. She’s already run into a few of them and promptly took their heads and lightsabers. They don’t have enough of a military rank to be useful.

She plays another video, watching Tano slice through more of the droids Mandalore had commissioned to deal with the Jedi’s clone army. Mandalorians are proud warriors, unwilling to leave a fight to others, but none of them have the time to kill a bunch of clones when there are Jedi to deal with. Besides, droids are easy to direct and better fighters, so long as the programming is decent. The first supplier had been useless, the droids no more than cannon fodder. They’d fixed that quickly enough. Mandalore would not have such a useless army. The new droids communicated silently; the orders transmitted by comms directly. It was all much more efficient and less prone to security leaks to listening scouts. Droids skilled in hand to hand combat were no existent. No computer could compete with a Jedi’s use of the Force, so that was left to the Mandalorian commander. They are, however, more skilled in aiming and stealth, especially since Jedi cannot sense droids. Much of the war has devolved into guerrilla warfare. Its all rather brutal, but that’s just the way she likes it.

Mandos are hardwired for war. Their brains thrive on conflict, on violence. They are built to live it. To be the predators they were always meant to be.

A message sent out from her communicator gathers a squad of Mandalorians, many of them from Clan Kryze. It irks her to have to disguise herself, to hide her armor, but she can recognize the foolishness of revealing Mandalore’s hold on Coruscant. The moment the Jedi became aware, they’d all be chased off planet and lose one of their main sources of intel.

“Plain clothes. Today, we’re slavers going after a Togruta Jedi too young to defend herself. Lo-ras is in charge of the crime scene. Make us seem like a much larger group. You’ll need time to gather supplies. In the meantime, the rest of us will find the target, monitor her movements and then strike. Keep it quick and quiet. And if she doesn’t leave the Jedi’s fortress, find a way to lure her out. Understood?” Bo-katan says to the small group.

“Yes sir!”

“We’re meeting at the _Juniper_ in half an hour. Be there.”

 ---------------------

“This is Arc-trooper Higo,” Windu says, gesturing to the armored trooper beside him. The trooper stands at attention, though their armor is unmarked. “He specializes in covert operations and will be stationed on board your ship temporarily. You will not interfere with his mission. If you have any problems, you bring them directly to me. Do you understand, Knight Tisa?”

Knight Tisa, only just promoted and terrified beyond belief to be face to face with the Master of the Order, nods. “I understand, Master Windu,” she says. A part of her hopes the Arc trooper will have some good suggestions for the upcoming battle. She’s only been in a couple of skirmishes, none of them near what she’s being sent to do now. Everyone else is busy or dead. Her commander, Kiki, will hopefully be able to help. She has known him since she was a young padawan. He’s not afraid to tell her if she’s making a bad call. All she has to do is keep the Mandos from destroying the outpost at Jinnas until its evacuated then destroy it as they retreat. “A pleasure to meet you, Arc-trooper Higo.”

The clone salutes. He follows as she walks towards the boarding ramp of her ship. She wants to talk to him, but he’s broadcasting discomfort in her presence. He doesn’t know her. She’s likely to be seen as a threat, especially if he hasn’t had a good Jedi to work with before. Tisa knows the stories of the Jedi who have thrown their men into battle to die. Jedi who have broken, who’s spirit had been crushed under the weight of so much death. They had only ended up causing more. She knows not to push. His brothers will be there for him. He will speak to her if he needs, or if he wants to. She will not take that choice from him.

“Captain Joji can take you to your quarters. Commander Kiki and I will be on the bridge, if you wish to join us, though I understand you have your own mission. We won’t interfere, but if you have any strategic training, we would always appreciate your help.”

Higo nods, still silent. “This is Captain Joji,” she says. She bows to the two of them. “Joji, this is Arc-trooper Higo. He’s on a mission from the Council, so please arrange quarters for him. He’ll likely need time to prepare.”

“Understood, general.”

“You’re dismissed.”

Tisa hides the frown that wants to creep up. She doesn’t want to lead these men. She wanted to be an Archivist. But she’s been called, as all Jedi have, to fight against the Mandalorians. She understands why. Mandalorians can be brutal. They’d been slowly chipping away at the Republic until it had finally broken out into war several years ago. She’s tired now, but she knows if they surrender the Jedi will die. The Mandalorians have executed and slaughtered Jedi for as long as the two of them have known each other. It’s been one of their terms of peace for years. She’s more than a little afraid that the Republic will comply. She hopes the Council has a backup plan. No one should have to face Mandalorian execution, especially not the younglings.

“Take us into hyperspace, Lieutenant Veers,” she says. She hopes they survive this.

 ---------------

The moment Captain Joji leaves, Anakin pulls off his helmet. He feels a bit bad hiding among those that are supposed to be his allies, but there’s been too many leaks lately. They only ones that know of his mission are him and Windu. They agreed this would minimize the risk. He hadn’t told Padme, though he had spent a long night with her. He’s lucky to have met her. The war had been raging for three years before they met. He’d had to rescue her ship from an ambush on his first mission as a general. It had been a weird few months to follow, but they’d become friends and eventually lovers. Now, the war is nearing six years in length. He wants nothing more than for it to end. She’d given him hope. He wanted a future with her after this was all over. He just had to survive until then.

His silence had kept Joji and Tisa from seeing through his disguise. He’s lucky he’s of similar height to the clones or this never would have worked. Tisa’s not powerful enough to see through the emotional shield he had built to make him seem like a clone. It would hold, so long as she doesn’t try to force her way past. But for now, he needs to work. With his designation as an arc trooper, he’ll be able to get anywhere on the ship, though he’ll need to avoid conversing with anyone. He has a few prerecorded phrases if absolutely necessary, but those won’t hold up for anything beyond a simple yes or no. Clones are very good at telling each other apart even when identical to the eye. He isn’t sure if it has something to do with voice, but he isn’t about to test that out. There’s too much at stake.

He runs his fingers through his hair. He’s beginning to understand why many troopers keep their hair short. It seems to just collect sweat inside the helmet. It sticks to his head, flat and limp. He’ll have to cut it if he decides to wear a helmet. He has been considering it. The extra protection would keep him from being shot in the head but learning to use the HUD would be difficult. Ahsoka wouldn’t fit in a helmet though. Maybe he could build one for her.

He sighs. Time for that later, hopefully. Obi-wan needs rescuing. His tongue flickers over the false tooth, this one implanted with a fast acting poison in case he couldn’t make it out. Many Jedi have one after seeing the holo vid of Obi-wan. To many, it’s a far more merciful option. He chose it because he knows if he’s captured, he or Obi-wan will break. One way another, someone will give in to help the other. They’ll be pushed too far. He won’t allow that. He isn’t foolish enough to believe he’ll make a miraculous escape. He may be very good at such things, but not from Mandalore itself. He isn’t so arrogant as to believe that. War has corroded at that arrogance to the point where he is keenly aware of what he is and what he isn’t capable of. He isn’t sure where this mission falls, but he has the suspicion it might be too much for even him to handle.

Anakin shoves the helmet back on and makes his way down to the lower decks. One of the airlocks there stands alone. It doesn’t open from the outside, instead used for body disposal. It’s a place no clone wishes to be in. It’s a place for funerals, for last goodbyes as they entrust their brother’s bodies to the stars to be eternally preserved in the abyss. The religion of the clones is not one they share with the Jedi. They have so little that is their own, Anakin has no desire to encroach on that. He hopes his use of the airlock isn’t problematic, but it’s the only one that isn’t watched during a battle since its too small for ships to attach to and closed from the outside. He really hopes this works or he’s going to be lost in space.

He hooks up the extra oxygen tank to his helmet. The small jetpack on his back will hopefully keep him on course. He adjusted it to keep the power levels down. Too much thrust and he’d never be able to get himself back under control. He steps into the airlock, sealing it behind him. He sets to work on the controls, rigging up a bypass for the final door. He can’t open the airlock from inside, safety controls preventing it from being operated alone. There is an emergency seal inside, but that’s only for use in emergencies. He’s pleased with his skill with electronics, but bypassing safety protocols is delicate work. Especially if he doesn’t want to set off any alarms.

He peals off his glove and sets to work. The hand he lost, replaced with a metal one, lets him bend the delicate wires with ease and keeps him safe from any unexpected shocks. His flesh hand lets him work with the more delicate components. He taught most of this to Ahsoka after she was assigned to him. She was so small, barely more than a child. She’d brought hope to his life, giving him another reason to live. She’d been fourteen, a bit wild and desperate to prove she was just as good as everyone else. Their first mission had been rough, but they had come to an understanding. She would tease and he would tease back, they’d laugh and pretend things would work out for the best. He had already been through three years of war. He needed someone to keep himself from another suicidal run. She had her own struggles, her own misery she had born. The Temple had been attacked numerous times, bombings and assassins almost omnipresent. She had just wanted to grow, to become who she was inside. Now, she was a capable warrior, a powerful Jedi. She’ll be knighted before the year is up, still only seventeen. He wishes that weren’t the case. She’s capable of leading a battalion of soldiers, but she’s still young. Still learning. But war waits for no one.


	5. Best-laid Plans

The darkness ripples. Vague shapes drift by, none of them real, only a byproduct of a brain lacking stimulation. It needs patterns, something to see, to feel. There is nothing but the box. The darkness. The silence. At some point when he had finally fallen asleep it had been tipped back, leaving him lying down. Sleep is a brief interlude, hardly restful, but omnipresent as he drifts. There are no stimulants in his blood, not now. Even without them he can’t rest. Sleep is the same as waking, an ever-present, endless void. Nothing changes.

Obi-wan shifts slightly, trying to avoid putting weight on the pressure sores slowly forming. It’s been hours, maybe days, sweat and his own immobility only contributing to the problem. A catheter kept urine from collecting, though he isn’t sure when that was put in. Without it, the skin would deteriorate quickly in such a wet environment. It seems the Mandos don’t want him to die of infection. It was never an issue before despite the time he has spent in medical bays and wards. Healers and medics were always present, there to ensure his body didn’t deteriorate as he healed from various blaster shots, explosions, or lightsaber cuts.

Now, he is alone. He stretches to the best of his ability, trying to keep his muscles from deteriorating. The collar chafes at his neck, the skin becoming red and painful. The walk here had been brutal and panic inducing. The Force had been silent, leaving him unable to feel anything at all. There’d been only the shouting and the pain of limbs hitting him. The bruises remain.

There is pain, now a dull ache. He will not heal here. Only fade. The darkness remains. He will not.

 ----------------

Ahsoka is on guard duty, watching over a particularly irritating senator that doesn’t seem to understand that he’s in danger. She should be with her master, but he’d been assigned some secret mission and had disappeared, only taking the briefest moment to wish her goodbye. She’s had a bad feeling all day, though she isn’t sure if it concerns her master, herself, or the senator who insists on walking in open parks without a proper contingency of clones. He says he’s trying to clear his head, though she knows he dislikes the clones. He doesn’t want them near him. He doesn’t even want her near him, seeming to find issue with her non-human physiology. Being a Jedi seems to override that prejudice just enough to allow her to guard him. Part of her wishes she didn’t have to. That part of her is the one that screams at the growing discrimination, that wants to burn down the stores that call for employs but say that nonhumans need not apply. The war has made everything scarce. Store owners and suppliers have started to only sell to their own species. The war has been going on too long. Anyone who is not them is quickly becoming an enemy.

Ahsoka is quick to point out that Mandalorians are human, or at least near enough that any differences are not visible on the surface. With thousands of planets and generations of humans, there’s bound to have been some genetic drift. Most of it is subtle, making some humans taller than others or some with thicker skin or no hair. Not enough to make them near human or classified as humanoid. There are so many humans they’ve become the baseline for classification. It’s a system that’s only become more pronounced. Paranoia and suspicion have run rampant. The war needs to end. She hopes it doesn’t end with the Mandos winning. That is far worse than any speciesism Coruscant has thrown at her.

The senator steps into a high end restaurant, a train of robes made from fabric more expensive than a small moon following behind him. She trails just behind, aware that her own dress and armor stand out ridiculously. She doesn’t wear the traditional Jedi robes. She doesn’t remember much of her home world of Shili, but she wants to remain a part of it. She’s still a Togruta and is proud of that heritage. She’s less than pleased about the presence of armor that disrupts her more traditional Togrutan outfit, but she can recognize armor for its usefulness. And Rex would be very upset if she were to go out into battle unprotected. He’d even found her a helmet and cut out pieces so it could fit over her montrals and lekku, though she only uses it when absolutely necessary. It messes with her echolocation too much.

She stands against the wall as Senator Jem is joined by several other human senators from various planets. They’re profiting greatly from the war, though no one seems to be inclined to accuse them of war profiteering. Even the new Chancellor, elected after Chancellor Palpatine was brutally murdered by a large group of Mandalorians, seems to only be growing wealthier as the days pass. The mystery of Palpatine’s death was never fully investigated. No one knew why so many Mandalorians had been present at his death, though the amount of blood splatter suggested that a significant number of Mandalorians were killed in the process, though by who, no one knew. Chancellor Lee didn’t seem to be making any progress in ending the war. Ahsoka is rather glad he isn’t desperate enough for peace to allow the Mandos to execute all the Jedi. The Republic needs to win. And they need to win soon, or the Republic’s population will become too tired of the rations and shortages and will demand an end, no matter the cost.

“Let’s ask our resident Jedi,” one of the senators is saying. Ahsoka’s thoughts snap out of her own head and onto their conversation.

“Jedi!” Senator Jem says, gesturing for her to approach. She wants to tell him she has a name, a military rank, and a title, but she isn’t supposed to be causing another diplomatic incident. Obi-wan isn’t here to smooth over any feathers she ruffles.

“Yes senators,” she says, keeping her serene Jedi mask in place. She’s gotten rather good at it. Master Obi-wan helped her before— She doesn’t want to think about what happened to him. Doesn’t want to consider what they might still be doing to him. She’s having one of the poison teeth implanted tomorrow. She’d been hesitant, and certain her master would disapprove, but she doesn’t want the same thing to happen to her. Being a padawan won’t protect her. She’ll be a knight soon, a general, and likely a high ranking one quickly enough. She’s grown up fighting a war. She knows how to lead. The Council knows that. They’ll need her. But not yet. They’ve been pushing for her to take her trials, but Skyguy has managed to keep them from throwing her out into the wild just yet. She’s not ready yet. They both know it, but she will be soon. “How may I be of service?”

“Did you know that Jedi they paraded around Mandalore?”

“Are the Jedi afraid of the Mandos now? How’d you let him get captured?”

“How many Jedi are currently being held by them?”

“Have any attempts been made to rescue them?”

“Many of your questions pertain to current military operations, which are classified. I cannot answer them, nor do I know many of the answers, as I have not yet achieved the rank that is held by older Jedi,” Ahsoka says.

One of the senators frowns. “Wait a moment. How old are you? What is your rank?”

“I’m a Jedi padawan and GAR commander.”

“I thought only knights could be assigned guard duty.”

“Are you telling me I’m being guarded by a Jedi student?” Jem asks.

“I did introduce myself by that rank, Senator Jem. I also would not have been assigned to you if I were not capable,” Ahsoka says. The bad feeling worsens as a tingling sensation crawls up her spine. Someone’s watching. She can practically feel their eyes on her. Her hand drifts towards her lightsaber, but no one seems to be taking any shots. Not yet.

“I heard the Jedi are going to invade Mandalore.”

“I hear they’re leaving that Jedi behind. There’s no way they’d ever get to Mandalore.”

“Ever hear of orbital bombardment? They aren’t going to Mandalore. They’re just getting near it.”

Ahsoka steps back as the senators become more involved in their conversation. They aren’t interested in her opinion. Her hands remain on her lightsabers. Padawan Jells will replace her once dinner is over. The night shift is always easier, especially if the senator decides to stay in their apartment. She’ll need to warn her about what she sensed. It might be nothing, but she knows better than to ignore the Force.

 -------------------

Bo-katan lowers the macrobinoculars once the Jedi tenses. Tano has likely sensed someone watching her. Bo-katan decides not to push her luck. The Jedi’s supernatural powers can be unpredictable, but it does seem to provide warnings. She doesn’t need the Jedi knowing what’s waiting for her tonight.

Standing inside a building and looking out through the window, she has a clear view of much a large part of the city. Getting to Coruscant was as easy as it always was. Mandos never revealed their faces. Only Satine’s was known, simply because she was the leader of Mandalore and was the only the Republic was able to observe since she gave speeches without her helmet on. Voices were too distorted by helmets to be heard over long distances for such events. Everyone else, however, can get around easily. Years ago, they developed an interference wave that prevented Republic bioscanners from identifying them as Mandalorian. It doesn’t take much, only broadcasting a slight change in brain structure similar to someone from Naboo. No one believed Mandos would ever be without their beskar’gam. They made no effort to disprove that notion. It only made spying easier.

They had left Mandalore in a trade ship then landed on a neutral planet. Boarding a transport craft, they bounced around the mid rim before making it to Naboo. From there, they went to Coruscant. It was a ridiculously roundabout way to arrive, but it kept Republic security off their scent. Eventually, they’d found an overpriced hotel, which they had to order in pairs since Coruscant’s people were typically monogamous. Paying for three rooms when they could all fit into one was just ridiculous. However, drawing attention would be counterproductive. Coruscant was practically filled with paranoid people, evidenced by the numerous patrolling guards and security systems.

“Target is in a restaurant, about five klicks away,” she says, turning towards the group. Lo-ras is already gone, gathering supplies and preparing an ambush. The remaining four have outfitted themselves in plain clothes designed to hide the armor and weapons underneath. “Lo-ras has sabotaged the Jedi’s hoverbike. She’ll fall after flying for ten klicks. If she follows a straight path, that’ll be halfway to the Temple. It’s unlikely that she will be given that security measures demand a more roundabout approach for the Temple, giving them more time to scan and ensure her identity. Regardless, she’ll fall, and we need to be there. Treek will be here, keeping watch. Tell us where she’ll land, then we’ll follow. Understood?”

“Yes sir!”

“Get to your bikes. Keep yourselves safe. Take up positions. Wait for Treek to tell you where. Do not engage her alone. Two of you should be enough, but this is a kidnapping, not an assassination. We’ll all need to be there if we’re going to be successful. K'oyacyi vode.”

 ---------------

The ship shudders as it drops out of hyperspace. The stars solidify, no longer streaking by. Knight Tisa stands on the bridge, keeping her body relaxed despite her nerves. Displaying her anxiety will only make her troopers anxious. That doesn’t help them win the battle, it makes them sloppy. Instead, she stares out the window as they approach. Jinnas is a massive gas planet below them. The outpost there orbits high above the planet. Already, Master Pantemla’s forces are keeping the Mandos occupied as the outpost evacuates. The battle is already lost, they just need more time.

“Get our ships into position. Deploy all snub fighters,” she says. The ship rumbles as the massive hanger doors open. Tiny craft whiz by, much faster and more maneuverable than the cruiser. “Get our shields up and get into position. We need to get those transport craft out of here. Target the nearest Mando cruiser.”

The hum of guns firing echoes through the ship despite all attempts to muffle it. Gunners have gone deaf when their helmet soundproofing malfunctioned. It won’t stop until the battle is over or they run out of charges. She hopes it is the former instead of the latter.

The cruiser moves into position, acting as a barrier when the snub fighters need cover. The Mando ships are larger and painted in a mess of colors. Some are painted like predators from akul to rancor. The Republic cruisers are uniform except for the occasional name painted on the side. Some of the snub fighters are painted but those get replaced often enough that there’s not much money to spend on it.

She blinks as a fighter is destroyed, its pilot’s death ringing in the Force. She pulls up her shields and releases those emotions to the Force. She’ll mourn later, when the battle is over. For now, emotions are only a distraction.

“Mandos returning fire,” Kiki says. “Shields holding.”

The holotable lights up, displaying a holograph of the battle constructed from their scans of the area. The starfighters are too small to be seen from this distance, but the holograph can capture them. They’re all displayed faintly in blue. Those that disappear behind the larger cruisers are noted, helping them to be aware of what’s waiting for them and keep track of the numbers. The algorithm for it all is far more complicated, even allowing them to predict locations of ships and preventing the Mandos from fooling the sensors by trading ships out. Its all rather involved, meant to keep the battle organized and understandable. At least, that’s how in worked in a lab. In an actual battle, the thing is prone to flickering whenever the shield takes a hit and occasionally throwing in a few stray snub fighters. Nothing too terrible, but enough that they sometimes throw out a few extra fighters when they don’t need to.

The bridge rocks. “Got hit by a torpedo. Damage to decks seven through twelve. Casualty reports coming in,” Kiki says. “Two dead. Three injured.”

“Evacuation status.”

“They need another half hour.”

“Send out the gunships to support the transports. Keep the Mandos occupied.”

“Can do.”

 -------------------

Anakin steps away from the wall, his jury-rigging complete. He puts back on his helmet, activating the seals. The ship shudders. A torpedo hit. They’ll be firing back once the torpedoes are loaded. He needs to move now. He forces himself to relax, to be brave. Obi-wan needs him. He pulls the trigger and the airlock opens.

He’s ripped off his feet as the air is blown out. He’s small enough the sensors will ignore him, so long as there’s reason to be there. The computer will ignore debris, if it knows where it came from. He’ll be a speck of debris until he’s moving. He’ll follow in the shadow of a torpedo. Things will be fine. No one will detect him.

Anakin activates the jetpack, flying after the Republic’s torpedoes as they launch. They leave behind a blue trail, same as his jetpack. Its delicate work following behind them, but the Force is a powerful enough ally that it doesn’t matter how fast he’s going. He’ll make it through.

He pours on the speed, streaking through the blackness of space. The near constant fire of bolts lights up the darkness, exchanged between ships with enough firepower to destroy continents. Lives are snuffed out by the second. Mandos and clones chase after each other. Droids follow without hesitation, raining fire with a deadly accuracy no organic could ever achieve.

Anakin pulls back just as he nears the Mando ship. The torpedo races ahead, exploding into the hull. Metal explodes as the torpedo tears through the shield. He uses the Force to flick the debris aside before flying through the hole left by the torpedo before the atmosphere shields can snap into place. He tumbles into the wall, grateful for the armor that keeps his bones from breaking. Leaping to his feet, he runs forward, sensing a single lifeform just beyond the door. The Mandos and droids in this destroyed section of ship are either dead or mangled beyond belief. The Force protected him from the brunt of the explosion, but he’d been farther than they were. Now, he needs a disguise.

The door slides open as he readies himself. The Mando behind it is dressed in full armor, accompanied by a squad of droids. Anakin makes quick work of them. The Mandos working on these lower decks aren’t as strong as the commanders and captains. They’re here to serve their planet, not yet old enough to fight as the older, more experienced Mandos do. But this Mando would kill him if he had the chance. Anakin isn’t going to give him that. The man’s neck snaps in his grip, the body going limp. Life bleeds out into the Force before dispersing entirely.

Anakin removes the clone armor, then the Mando’s. They aren’t very close in height or weight. The man is skinny and much shorter. It’ll have to work until he finds someone with more suitable armor. He pulls on the helmet. Its tight, pressing his hair against his head and squeezing. A headache waiting to form. The chest plate attaches well enough to the clone trooper’s blacks. The gauntlets don’t fit. Nor do the rest of the leg armor. All of its almost ridiculously small, but the blasters are charged and ready. That’s enough for him until he finds someone else.

He puts the clone armor on the man then pushes him out through the atmosphere shield. The Force wraps around the droids and they too go out the atmosphere shield. They’ll be enough bodies after the battle that a few more won’t matter. They just got blown out when the torpedo exploded. No one is going to check for cause of death. No one is going to know he was ever here.

The Jedi creeps along the corridor, warry of cameras. His senses extend outwards, tracking the nearby Mandos. He can’t sense the droids, but Force enhanced hearing lets him pick up their footsteps. He can avoid them well enough. A step around the corner and he spots a Mandalorian, closer in size to him. He sprints forward, silent until he has an arm around the man’s neck. The Mando crumples under him. Their armor is a brilliant orange. And this Mando turns out to be female. Wonderful. It’s a difficult to tell from the outside, but there are slight differences in measurements. He’ll take the pieces that fit, throw her out another atmosphere shield, and find another Mando. He’s in for a long day.

 


	6. Set in Motion

A brush scrapes over the blue and green armor, scrapping away the splattered and dried blood. Sparring is most enjoyable, but her skill is far greater than most Mandos. She has spent her whole life being taught by the best and striving to be better. Satine can win any fight. Its what allows her to remain in power. Its what makes Mandalore respect her. Unfortunately, it also means that there’s no one who makes a suitable sparring partner. She has to fight them in teams, taking on multiple partners at once. It’s a thrill, enough to get the adrenaline running, enough to challenge her. Mandalore needs to be strong. She’ll make them strong even if she has to beat them until they smarten up. She won’t lose anyone else to the Jedi. Mandalore will not cower to them. Eventually, she will rule. The Jedi will die. Though she might keep a few kneeling at her feet. It’s a nice image. Jedi were once considered the strongest of warriors. They could have been the rulers of the galaxy. But they’re too cowardly to take what could be theirs. They serve the Republic, like dogs. Jedi would make terrible Mandalorians.

She flips her helmet over in her hands, gazing into the t-shaped visor. It’s a design the clones of the Republic have adopted. They’re clones based on another Mandalorian, this one the last of the Fett clan. What possessed him to be the template for a Republic army, she doesn’t know. Likely money. She never thought Fett was much of a Mandalorian. He had abandoned them during the civil war. She would not welcome him back.

She had hoped such divided allegiances would lead to the clones defecting to Mandalore. Unfortunately, they’re as dog-like as the Jedi. They don’t seem capable of independent thought, let along defection. How Fett had allowed for that, she wasn’t sure. He should have been loyal to Mandalore. He was a Jedi killer. He should never have given them an army.

This whole war had been an excessively bizarre series of events and coincidences. The army of Mandalorian clones is strange beyond belief, but everything else was even more so. Satine knew of the growing Separatist movement almost six years ago. She’d been busy chipping away at the Republic, taking planets into her empire that no one cared about. The Separatists felt the Republic couldn’t protect them and had tried to make their own army and separate from the Republic. They’d only succeeded in removing themselves from the Republic’s feeble protection. She annexed several hundred planets that day. That was enough for the Republic to start a war. Mandalore had moved too fast for them. They panicked. The Republic showed up with a cloned army and Jedi to lead them. Satine had adopted the Separatist droids to combat the clones. Things had worked out well enough for the first two years.

Until a Sith approached her. He had wanted to work with her, to kill as many Jedi as possible. Mandalore had worked with the Sith before. A common enemy in the Jedi and an ingrained love for violence had kept them together. She had agreed. It made their victories more efficient. They caught Jedi, killed them. The Sith provided incredible intel. Enough that she was finally able to discover his identity. She hadn’t needed to use that information until she had understood just what the Sith’s final goal was. He would never work alongside Mandalore. He wanted to rule them, to dispose of her and bring Mandalore to its knees.

She had killed Chancellor Palpatine for that. A hundred Mandalorians had gone that day, all of them armed, with her leading. He was as skilled as the legends of the Sith would claim. His sabers were devastating, his lightning almost as much. But Satine was born to fight to Force sensitive, not just Jedi. She knows how to beat them. How to kill them. And she did, though it cost the lives of almost seventy Mandos. They were granted the highest honors.

And the war went on without the Sith.  

A war that would last until the Jedi are dead and Mandalore rules.

She scrubs at a stubborn speck of blood, the brush scarping at the beskar with a soft whisper. Her eyes drift towards the blood stain on her carpet. The Jedi is gone, locked in a box deep within the dungeons below. His blood remains. She rather enjoys the double take the younger Mandos do when they come in. Its as if they aren’t sure its blood until they come to terms that of course Satine would have blood on her floor. She is the Mand’alor. Blood should be expected.

 ---------------------

Obi-wan doesn’t know why the Mandos hate him. The hatred the Mandalorians have for the Jedi is legendary. Their wars in the past had finally ended when Mandalore fell into civil war. The Jedi had been happy to leave them to it, perhaps hoping Mandalore would wear itself out. No one ever told him what went wrong between them. It doesn’t seem like a single incident, but rather a hatred that has festered and grown, only encouraged by actions taken throughout the years. The Jedi had won the last war, though not through any skill of their own, but Mandalore’s dead leader and the chaos that followed. Perhaps the Mandos hated them for that. Or they hated them because they try to protect those that cannot. They meddle, preventing Mandalore from taking what it wants. It was never personal. Not for him. It was war, but he was always certain they would eventually make peace with each other. War couldn’t last forever.

He stares into the darkness as bugs crawl up his skin. At some point, someone had stuck a needle in his back, likely with nutrients and drugs to encourage stronger hallucinations. The tactile hallucinations had started at some point, maybe a few hours ago, leaving him feeling like beetles are digging in and crawling around beneath his skin. He tells himself scratching will only make it worse. Its not real. But his mental discipline is wearing thin. His hands itch to scratch at his skin until the bugs are set free.

Something slithers across his face. Not a droplet of sweat, rather a silky worm intent on digging its way inside. His body jerks as it slithers into his eye, slowly tearing at the delicate tissues. His logical thoughts fade, instinct taking over. He’s lost enough weight around his arms and torso that he can just barely pull his hand up to his face. His broken nails claw at the skin, desperate to keep the worm out of him.

He screams into the darkness. No one can hear him. He needs to get out. What could they possibly want that is worth all this? Death would be preferable. This darkness can’t last forever. It can’t. Please.

 --------------------

Ahsoka leaves Padawan Jells at the senator’s residence. The Tholothian girl had smiled, though it was turned into a half smile because of the scarring on her face. A bomb had gone off a few months ago, killing a battalion of troopers and leaving Jells with permanent scarring. Younger than Ahsoka by almost a year, she’s still about to be thrown back to the front lines, likely without her Master. The older woman was killed in the same blast that left Jells scarred. She’ll be given another battalion of inexperienced clones and back on the front within a month. Ahsoka is certain she’ll be dead soon. Jells is skilled, but not enough to survive on her own.

They had spoken for a few moments, neither of them mentioning missing or dead masters. They traded news of other padawans, who still lived, who was in the halls of healing, and who was on the front lines. Her friend Barriss had been killed just a few weeks ago. It hadn’t been on the front lines. The Mirialan had been found on the lower levels of Coruscant, murdered. The investigation was ongoing, especially after they discovered that she had been searching for nanodroids, which could easily have been requisitioned if she had wanted to use it for official purposes. The rest of the report had been classified. Skyguy had been busy then, unable to help her slice into it. Master Obi-wan had just been captured. She let her concern for her dead friend go, choosing to focus on someone she might be able to help. No one had been successful. The Jedi don’t want to give up, but there is only so much they can do. Obi-wan isn’t going to be rescued.

The hilts of her lightsabers swing, gently bumping into her legs as she makes her way to her hoverbike. She rents this one from the Temple whenever she needs to go out. Her master had helped her to modify it as part of her mechanical training. Its faster and more efficient than normal bikes. She swings a leg over and settles herself. The Force whispers to her, though its nothing specific. Nothing she can act on. She does scan the surrounding area, feeling for those with malicious intent. The malicious intent is omnipresent on Coruscant. There are enough people that’s impossible for there to be a lack of malicious intent, but no one seems to be focused on her. No one nearby at least.

She kicks off, gunning the engine and twisting her way into traffic. The engine sounds a little funny, but she doesn’t have her master’s gift to know exactly what’s wrong just by listening. It also isn’t something she can fix midair and stopping right now isn’t an option. Speeders and transports are whizzing by at hundreds of kilometers an hour, mostly driver by droids that can handle the speeds or driven by sentients with extensive computer assistance. She doesn’t need it, the Force keeping her safe, but it still gives her a bit of a thrill to tear through the air, wind brushing against her montrals.

The engine sputters out along with the gravlift, thankfully dragging her out of traffic lanes, but she’s still falling. She pulls up on the handlebars, leveling herself out and trying to create drag. The wind twists and tears at her clothes. The rooftops of the lower levels approach. She ensures her lightsabers are secure then takes a Force-enhanced leap from the bike. Her lightsabers ignite on low power and dig into the rooftop. She tumbles over the edge, her lightsabers still dug into the metal. She slides down the side of the building until she’s lost enough speed for her to take control. She pushes away from the wall and lands in an alley, rolling and flipping until she can safely stop. Ahsoka’s lightsabers remain activated. Coruscant’s lower levels are filled with gangs and more criminal activity than she cares to read about.

The Force flares with danger. Her lightsaber flicks up, catching a blaster bolt. A group of humans comes from around the corner, blasters in hand.

“What do we have here? You lost, little girl?” the leader asks. The human is female with red hair and green eyes so light they border on yellow. Her features are severe, her nose pointed sharply. The others around her have equally sharp features, a trait Ahsoka has long associated with the duchess of Mandalore.

The Force curls and warps, confirming her suspicion. These aren’t low level thugs or slavers. These are Mandalorians. And she is outnumbered.

A quick glance at the comm on her wrist shows a dim light, indicative of a jamming signal. She slides into a defensive stance, lightsabers out and ready. There is a grin on the lead Mandalorian’s face as she draws her second pistol. “Might as well throw down your sabers, girl. You aren’t getting away.”

“Then you’re stupider than I thought if you think you can take me down,” Ahsoka shouts back. Its not a boast of any truth, but Skyguy says that angry people make mistakes. She just needs to irritate them a bit. Then again, he would also tell her to make a run for it, but this seems too planned, too staged for an escape to be as simple as running.

She’s supposed to point her lightsaber at herself, to take her own life rather than be captured. But she still has hope. Hope that she can make it out, that she can win. It’s a dangerous hope, but she can’t convince herself to give it up. Not yet.

Ahsoka flips into action, her lithe body moving faster than eyes can track. She dodges blaster bolts and cords and cuts through blasters. She brings both of them down on the arms of the lead Mando. The Mando’s gauntlets are made of full beskar’gam, making them resistant to lightsabers. Ahsoka backs away, adjusting her strategy to account for the hidden armor she had unexpectedly collided with. There’s four Mandos in front of her and one sneaking up behind her. She spins into action, lightsaber colliding with plasma shields and burning through blasters, bolts, and darts. She leaps to the side as fire blazes past her montrals. The Force comes to her aid, letting her leap upwards and use the wall to climb until she has a moment to breath.

The Force screams a warning as a sixth Mando slams into her, having jumped down from a speeder. She tumbles off the side of the building and back into the main group. She cuts and slashes, aiming for weak points until her blade is interrupted by some projectile or counterattack. Her style is changing, becoming more defensive. There isn’t a chance to go on the offense.

She flips backwards then dives forward, saber decapitating one. Her leg kicks out, catching one in the chin. Her own armor impacts with theirs, but plastoid is no match for beskar. Nothing is. And the Mandos have hoarded their supply fiercely. Her gauntlet cracks. A fist hits her face then a boot kicks her stomach. And then its too late to make another choice.

The stun bolt slips past her guard. Her knees hit the floor. They aren’t trying to kill her. That isn’t right. The effort required to capture her and take her off Coruscant is far greater than just killing her. She doesn’t have useful intel. She’s a padawan. A student. Not yet an adult as much as she tries to be. They don’t need her. Why do they need her?

 --------------------

Tano crumples into Bo-katan’s waiting arms. She frowns at the body of Lo-ras. He was a capable fighter, but he shouldn’t have left himself open like that. It is always more difficult to capture than kill someone, but that’s no excuse for being killed by a Jedi. A Jedi padawan, no less. Though they now have two bodies to carry through Coruscant. No evidence will be left behind no matter how unlikely a body is to be found and identified as Mandalorian in the lower levels. Better to not risk it. Thankfully, the Jedi is small and light. She won’t be much of a burden.

Treek retrieves the speeder he leapt from and pops open the trunk. They would have put the Jedi in there, but a decapitated body is more suspicious than a Togruta. They load Lo-ras inside, grateful for the lack of blood caused by the lightsaber’s cauterization. The rest of them squish into the speeder, Tano among them with cuffs around her wrists. The Force inhibitor will have to wait till they’re off planet. They have yet to create a security device that would prevent detections of the prohibited devices. They wrap her in a blanket, hiding her bound hands, and trying to create the illusion that she’s asleep.

Bo-katan injects the Jedi with a sedative that will keep her out until they’re off planet. She keeps the Jedi’s sabers on her belt, rather enjoying the added weight. She’s been collecting them since the beginning.  The more notable the Jedi she took them from, the more likely she is to carry them with her.

“Well, I’d say that went rather well,” Treek says.

“We’re not out of here yet,” Bo-katan says.

The speeder swings around a building, the inertial dampers keeping them from feeling the added pressure of high speed maneuvers. Other speeders race by, most of them filled with civilians, none of them with any idea of the predators that pass among them. Mandalore has nowhere near the population of Coruscant simply because most of their planet is uninhabitable after centuries of wars. Their growing empire had begun to account for the population deficit. Training for non-Mandalorians allowed those who wished to join their military as commanders of legions of droids. If they proved themselves, the Duchess would welcome them into Mandalorian society, oftentimes presenting them with beskar gauntlets. They weren’t many outsiders within Mandalorian ranks. Few other cultures trained their children in combat and tactics. It would be at least a few more years before the Mandalorian Empire produced children of all species capable of leading an army. It will be a glorious day when Mandalore can march on Coruscant.


	7. Things Go Awry

Teresa Sutter has worked for the Judicial department for over sixty years. Her days in the field are long passed. She doesn’t have the energy to chase criminals through the skies of Coruscant. Nor does she desire to continue her work as a detective. She had seen too many terrible things in the bowels of Coruscant. Indifference had taken root to the point where she wouldn’t blink at even the gruesome slaughter of children. That had been the day she moved to traffic watch. No quite old enough for retirement, she decided to wait out the last few years watching over the skies of Coruscant. She didn’t have to be indifferent anymore. Crashes are rare, only occurring when someone manages to bypass significant levels of safety features and disable the override that would allow Teresa to forcibly keep them from doing something ridiculous. The only trouble she sees at her post in the upper levels is one particularly irritating Jedi who is constantly flying between the Temple and the Senate at ridiculous speeds. She had tried the override, but his Jedi codes prevented her from slowing him down. She had even gone so far as too politely ask him to slow down, at which point she had received a rude comment and a threat to report her for interfering in Jedi business.

Skywalker hasn’t come whizzing by today, which means today is a good day. She doesn’t need to furiously hack into his speeder or direct traffic away from him. Today, she can keep her eyes on the sky, watching as thousands of speeders and bikes form dark lines along the clear blue sky. Her eyes immediately catch on to one speck, one that doesn’t quite fit. Its one among thousands, millions, but she has spent her whole life sniffing out trouble.

Teresa activates her scanner, carefully picking the speeder out of the crowd. Its just as she suspected. The computer assistance isn’t running, though the computer claims that it is. It’s a subtle difference, the space between this speeder and the next just a little too long. It’s a trick designed by criminals to keep their path from being tracked and logged in the system. Its likely one of hundreds of speeders with the falsified system, all of them tracing back to gangs and pirates. But not this one. It’s a trick that’s just a little too good, a little too well designed. These are no common criminals.

Her scanner transfers it into a holograph. The speeder and its occupants are slightly tinged blue. Four humans, or something near enough, and a Togruta teenager sit inside it. A Togruta by herself isn’t terribly concerning. She’s not a Twi’lek. But a young Togruta girl, asleep, with a group of muscular adults in a speeder with a fake computer signature is setting off all her mental alarms.

She activates her transponder. “This is Officer Sutter on traffic watch. We have suspicious activity on level 37000.12 in lane 91.342.3. Speeder has been tagged. There is a possible abduction of a Togruta teenager. Please send a squad to investigate.”

“This is YX-895,” a mechanical voice says. “You are acknowledged, Officer Sutter. A squad is on its way.”

Teresa leans back in her chair, watching over the hologram. She archives the images of the humans and tries to identify them. Nothing comes up immediately, but there are always more databases to search through. The Togruta’s identity comes up almost immediately. A Jedi padawan. Ahsoka Tano.

“This is Officer Sutter. Possible abductee has been identified as a Jedi padawan.”

“Acknowledged, Officer Sutter. Squads are on their way.”

The hologram zooms out, now including the approaching squad of Coruscant troopers and judicial officers. A security droid accompanies them, scanners at the ready. The humans in the speeder snap to, moving in sync, hands grasping concealed weapons, though they do not draw them. One of the women speaks up, a smile on her face that is not at all friendly. Teresa can’t hear the dialogue, but the body language is only getting more tense. Her lip reading is out of practice, leaving her to only observe. The clone troopers and judicial officers reach for their blasters. Teresa’s own hand reaches for a blaster that no longer hangs on her belt.

A bolt scorches through the air between them. The humans leap into action, dropping out of their speeder and into the traffic below. The troops attempt to give chase, but they aren’t equipped for chasing individuals wearing rocket boots. Instead, they chase after the woman with the padawan in her arms. The blanket the Togruta was wearing is lost, revealing a pair of heavy cuffs and bruises. The woman carrying her is slowed by the extra weight, but their speeder keeps diving between her and her pursuers.

Teresa tries to get the tracking system to focus on the fleeing humans, but they keep weaving in and out of traffic in an attempt to confuse her sensors. They are frustratingly successful. Then one of them flips around, twisting their body so quickly their turn is almost seamless. It’s a move she has seen many times before the war. She had seen these soldiers before, had watched them as they turned away from their own civil wars to conquering the galaxy.

There are Mandalorians on Coruscant.

“YX-895. Please respond. This is Officer Sutter.” She waits a moment. “Please respond.”

“This is YX-895. Acknowledged.”

“Those are Mandos. They’re chasing after Mandos. You need to tell the Jedi. You need to tell everyone.”

“Please present your evidence.”

“I know Mandos when I see them.”

“That is not satisfactory evidence.”

“Now you listen here, I don’t need any fancy scanners to tell me what I just saw. I know that maneuver. I’ve tried to do it myself, but only the Mandos have perfected it. Please, you need to let them know.”

“That is illogical.”

“Oh, shut up,” she says. She puts up the holo communicator and changes the frequency. Hopefully the rumors that Jedi can sense when a call is important are true. Her eyes flick to the hologram, watching as the Mando leader and Togruta land on top of a short building and disappear inside. The communicator flickers to life, but her call isn’t going through. “This is Offer Sutter from Traffic Control. There are Mandos on Coruscant. I repeat, there are Mandalorians on Coruscant.” The handle to her door twists. Mandos work in groups of six. And she’s only seen four. “I’m attaching all the footage I have of them. They move like Mandos, with that training that only they have. I’ve seen it a hundred times over. I was stationed on the Mandalorian border in my early years. I know you don’t have any reason to believe me, but please.” She glances towards the door. “The Togruta Jedi. Ahsoka Tano. She’s been captured by Mandalorians.” The door flies open, revealing a young man with sharp features and brilliantly blond hair.

“Hello, officer,” he says. “I’m here to clean up.”

“You’re too late,” she says, pulling out the holdout blaster that she keeps attached to her desk. She fires at her communicator, destroying it. Her smile turns wolfish. “Mandos aren’t welcome here.”

He fires, the bolt burning into her chest. The red plasma breaks through her skin and bone until it tears through her heart. It’s almost instant. It’s a much better end than what she thought she had coming. Retirement never suited her.

 --------------------------

Kinsaza is the last of Bo-katan’s squad, designated to sweep the evidence now that Lo-ras is dead. He hadn’t needed to interfere with traffic controls until the woman had called a squad on them. All she had to do was stay out of it. No traffic officer was supposed to be that ridiculously attentive. Their disguise was foolproof. Too foolproof, now that he’s thinking about it. It probably would have been less suspicious to appear as common criminals.

“Bo-katan, I have control traffic in this sector. I’ll get the troops redirected,” Kinsaza says over the radio. He picks up the destroyed communicator. “I think the officer here might have sent out a message. She specifically destroyed the communicator when I came in.”

“Trace it. Delete all footage. A mystery is better than evidence of our presence,” Bo-katan says.

“There’s no way they can link us to Mandalore anyway. No wait. The officer here, she called me a Mando.”

“What? How could she know?”

“I don’t know. But if she sent out a message, we’re in trouble.”

“Delete that message. Trace it. Wipe it. We’re getting off planet. Get judicial off us.”

“Good luck.”

 ---------------------------

It was supposed to be an easy mission, not whatever this has turned into. Bo-katan is no stranger to missions that go belly up, but this was important, something her sister trusted her to do. They needed the information that Jedi Councillor had. The padawan was the way to break him. It was a simple stealth op. A difficult one, but the plan was straight forward. They had kidnapped hundreds of people off Coruscant when they needed information or a hostage for blackmail.

She slips out of the building in a new speeder, Jedi in the trunk and irritation coursing through her veins. All it took was one overly attentive traffic cop and now Mandalore’s place here is at risk, their spies on the verge of being discovered. Damn.

If Kinsaza doesn’t get the evidence cleaned up, he isn’t coming back to Mandalore. She’ll make sure of that.

She sweeps around another building before finding a quiet landing pad with a very steal-able ship. She dumps the Jedi on the floor before taking off. She’ll make the roundabout trip home quickly enough. Everyone else is in charge of clean up. This can still work. It has to work, or they took a stupid risk because she told Satine it could be done. Arrogance had always been her problem. She should have made her wait until Tano was off planet.

 ------------------

Anakin has finally found someone close enough in size to him. He had traded out his armor collection for a complete set, finally able to blend in with the rest of the crew. He still stays far away from everyone. Being discovered now would be disastrous. He slips downwards towards the engine room. All he has to do is break something too delicate to be repaired on ship. Once they’re at a repair station, he’ll find a ship heading to Mandalore, steal someone’s credentials, and get there.

For once in his life, he’s glad he learned Mando’a. Most of the time, all he hears are death threats and promises of how his heart will be ripped from his body. Obi-wan had insisted that he learn the moment the war began. Anakin could acknowledge the tactical importance of it now, but his sixteen year old self did not. Eventually, he had been forced to learn it. Obi-wan and all the troops spoke it. He’d found himself on the outside of too many conversations before he finally motivated himself to learn the language. The months he spent on it finally came to an end when Obi-wan deemed him proficient. Now, he wishes he were a bit more than proficient. He might be able to follow orders, but not hold a conversation. His disguise won’t hold up if they try to speak to him. He’s also having trouble reading the language, which has led to several wrong turns and nearly stepping out of an airlock.

There aren’t many systems on a ship that aren’t critical to its motion. Navigating through space requires thousands of terabytes of data, all of it fed into computers designed to account for the motion of planets and stars. There are no landmarks in space, especially with everything in motion all the time, meaning the computers work constantly to determine their present location in reference to the black hole at the center of the galaxy. It’s a mostly constant landmark, though in the outer rim it can be a bit unreliable. Quantum physics and the rather irritating properties of light ensures that only the most advanced computers can carry them through space. He doesn’t want to sabotage those. As much as he hates Mandos, he has no desire to leave himself stranded in space with no where to go without activating the hyperdrive and likely crashing into whatever celestial body the ship hits first.

He leaves the hyperdrive system alone, though he does take some scans on it. Any tech specs will be useful to the Republic, so long as he’s alive to give it to them. Finding an isolated computer, he adds a backdoor into the ship’s code. Windu will know how to access it. Hopefully, it will get them started on worming their way in the Mando’s military database. Neither side has made much progress on slicing into the others.

Anakin drops down just above the sublevels. They’re usually only occupied by maintenance droids and the occasional mechanic. Security measures are designed to detect saboteurs. Infrared sensors and ID chips keep anyone, human or droid, from getting in without alerting the bridge unless they have clearance. But he didn’t come without the means to accomplish his plan. He pulls a small mechanical spider from his pocket. It awakens with a soft buzz, legs spreading and twisting as it runs a diagnostic. It rolls to its feet before leaping from his hand and down the corridor. It will find the nearest maintenance droid, latch on, dig in, and override its systems. It has specific instructions to sabotage the very delicate sewage system. Its not a strictly crucial system, like life support, and is unlikely to be targeted by saboteurs, making it a target that is unlikely to result in a manhunt for a spy onboard. It does, however, warrant a trip to a repair station before the system gets backed up. No one wants to be on a starship with a malfunctioning sewage system.

He leaves the spider to its orders with no way of monitoring it. If it is discovered, it can’t be traced back to him. Now, he needs to stay hidden. There are somewhere around a hundred Mandos that he can sense onboard, likely with thousands of droids. Most of those droids are likely shut down with only a few awake to patrol the halls or work the ship’s systems. With any luck, they’ll assume the man who’s armor he wears is dead, body lost somewhere out in the void of space.

There are many places to hide on a starship if one is aware of them. There are very few places to hide if one is not aware of the exact security layout and has not spent hours walking these halls. Someone had finally clued into the Jedi’s use of air vents, taking away a very valuable means of transportation in Mando ships and facilities. There are still storage closets with emergency supplies that no one checks up on until there is an emergency.

Anakin moves crates aside until he creates a hole for him to hide. The closet door closes behind him and he settles into his hiding spot. He sits with his knees pulled towards his chest, wishing he was a bit more flexible and smaller. Ahsoka would fit in here easily. She wouldn’t have to crane her neck or bend her back uncomfortably. He sighs as he leans back. He’s had a bad feeling for the past few hours, though what it pertains to, he doesn’t know. It could be Ahsoka failing another exam, though the Temple teachers are more lenient with those who spend so much time on the battlefield. It could be Padme in the senate, surrounded by people that wish her harm but have no way to accomplish it without leaving a trail back to them. It could be Obi-wan. Or it could be a subtle warning to Anakin himself that things are not about to go as planned. He hopes its just Ahsoka struggling with her math lessons. Those don’t get people killed.


	8. Damage Control

Mace Windu is trying very hard to ignore the voice in his head screaming that he sent Skywalker to his death. His whole day has been a miserable procession of paperwork and lies as he covers for Skywalker’s absence. He’s looking forward to a quick break, maybe some caff and a nap, before the next council meeting when the Force nudges him. He desperately wants to ignore it, but he has too much self-discipline to give into laziness. The door to the communications room opens as he approaches. It’s one of the lesser used stations, not linked to the war. Its more designed as a filtering system for calls coming from those seeking a Jedi they once knew or wanted to speak to. The padawan on duty is sound asleep. He considers waking them, but they have a thick bandage around their head. They likely need the time to heal.

He clicks on the blinking light, bringing up a message from a judicial officer that wasn’t sent through official channels. Odd. It begins to play, revealing an older woman declaring that there are Mandos on Coruscant. Its likely a false alarm, but the Force pushes for him to open the files. The first video is barely more than a few seconds, but its enough for him to identify an unconscious Ahsoka Tano. He runs from the room, commlink activated and calling for clone reinforcements.

“Get me the 501st,” he says. “Their commander is in danger.”

  ---------------

Satine sits in her throne, carefully carving up an apple as the senator from Mirial attempts to plead for lowered taxes on trade into their system. War costs money. This particular senator doesn’t seem to grasp that, so she lets her advisors explain it while she eyes the senator’s bodyguards. They’re both muscular and tall, though one of them is bulky to the point of clumsiness. The other is older and leaner. Her face is marked by several diamond shaped tattoos on her chin and several others in a line over the bridge of her nose. The meaning of the tattoos is something few, even among the Mirialans, can decipher. Satine, however, has studied the markings that would denote a warrior of significant caliber. She sees one here and has become intrigued.

“Excuse me, senator,” she says, getting up and stepping past him. She comes to a stop in front of the bodyguard. The midnight blue eyes of the Mirialan flicker across Satine’s armor and positioning. The senator has gone silent. “What are you called?”

“Benat, sir,” she says.

“Would you consider sparring with me? Your tattoos denote that you have completed tasks suited to a skilled warrior.”

“Then you have studied our markings.”

“I learn to recognize those with talent.”

“I cannot accept your offer. I must protect my senator. It is my primary objective.”

“Then I offer you a compromise. We need soldiers in our ranks. Officers. If I find your skills up to my standard, you will be given a position in our military and I will deduct a percentage of the taxes on the trade for your world.”

“Mand’alor,” one of Satine’s advisors says. “Are you certain?”

“A skilled warrior is of greater value to us than taxes,” she says.

“How much greater?” the senator asks.

“Let’s say… a five percent decrease.”

“Make it seven.”

“Sir?” Benat asks.

“Deal,” Satine says.

“Benat. Spar with her.”

“Are you certain this is wise?” Benat asks. “I cannot protect you and spar.”

“It is an acceptable risk.”

“Then I will obey.”

Satine smiles. “Then follow me, Benat.” The Mirialan falls into step just behind and beside her. The senator and the other guard, as well as her advisors, stay behind to further discuss the deal.

The blue metallic door to her favorite sparring room slides open, revealing a room with large windows, plants along the walls, and a gently padded floor. “What is your preferred method of spar?” Satine asks.

“Hand to hand.”

“Armored?”

“No.”

Satine nods. She shucks her armor in record speed, well aware that she is most vulnerable when distracted by its many clasps. Mirial may be under her rule, absorbed when she took control of the Separatist movement, but that doesn’t mean they are all loyal to her. That will have to change if Benat is as good as she suspects her to be.

She sets her armor aside, keeping it carefully stacked in the corner. In the meantime, Benat had shed her long cloak and skirt, revealing short shorts and a tank top. Her green tinged skin has several other diamond tattoos at various points. She’s as well built as Satine guessed.

Benat takes up her opening stance. Satine does the same, noting the differences in their styles. Through silent mutual agreement, their bout begins as they circle each other. Bare feet are near silent on the padded floor as their eyes flicker over each other. Benata makes the first move, feinting, then kicking out. Satine twists out of the way before delivering her own swift counterattack. They move fast, fists and feet flying. Elbows and knees follow with enough force to push the other woman back. Their moves become more elaborate, spinning and twisting around each other. Satine speeds up. Benat follows. They finally get a hold on each other, sending them both tumbling to the floor as they grapple for control. Benat initially ends up on top, using her weight in an attempt to pin Satine to the floor. Satine bucks her off, then tackles the other woman and wraps her in a full body lock. Benat squirms until she exhausts herself. She taps Satine’s arm, admitting her defeat.

“Well done,” Satine says, offering her a hand up. “I believe we do have a place for you.” Benat nods, though she says nothing. “We can protect Mirial. Its far enough into the Outer Rim that I can understand the difficulties of maintaining a stable economy. Mandalore can help.”

“Then why haven’t you?”

“We are at war, Benat. Resources are stretched thin. I cannot give without something more being given in return. Mandalore has much to offer Mirial.”

Benat stops. “You want more of us,” she says.

“The more capable soldiers your planet supplies, the more important it is to my empire. The more important it is, the easier it is to supply and protect it,” Satine says. “You serve Mandalore. And we serve you.”

“I will see what the others have to say. I promise nothing but my own service, in exchange for the tax reduction already stated.”

“You will be well cared for, Benat. Come, let me show you how to lead a battalion.”

  ---------------

He bleeds from the holes he tore in his own skin. The blood trickles slowly, leaving trails that dry and then itch. His head lists to the side, eyes staring blankly into the darkness. His hair and beard have grown out, becoming tangled and matted. The feeling of grease on his skin and in his hair makes him wish for a shower. He wants to sleep, but it is no escape from this darkness, just a passing of time that he isn’t aware of. There’s no way to mark it off, to keep track of it. Its all slipping away. Memories flicker to life with startling clarity. There are nights spent alone, in the darkness of his quarters, succumbing to the misery that has only grown through the years. There are hours spent in the training salles, getting beaten and burned with training sabers. There are days spent on the run, fleeing from failed negotiations. There are the Halls of Healing, sterile and painful as he drowns in bacta. There is Anakin, angry and raging against Obi-wan. There is Garen’s body, mutilated and delivered back to the Temple. There is Bant, finally breaking down in the Halls, her healing powers exhausted. There is his night spent in captivity listening as Adi is tortured to death until Anakin finally rescued him. There is Qui-gon, killed by a Sith in a power station on Naboo. The Sith were supposed to be their greatest threat. Only the Mandalorians seems to matter now.  

  ---------------

Kinsaza crawls carefully through Coruscant’s sewage tunnels, a mask over his face to keep out the stench that has not faded over the years. This system is long outdated, functioning only as overflow pipes in the event of an emergency. The working pipes are just to the right behind several feet of metal plating. It’s a system without maps, without reason. It was built as Coruscant was built and rebuilt over thousands of years. Few people come down here, instead leaving it all to the maintenance droids that have long since been shut off by those who wander these tunnels. For those that know their way around, they are an excellent place to escape to. For those that don’t, it is a labyrinth they will never escape.

It is here he meets with some of the Mandalorians embedded within Coruscant. They gather in an old service chamber. With them, they bring the tools of their trade: computers, datapads, and devices of their own design. They are silent, their eyes on him. He brings news of their home, of their families. He will tell them once their mission is shared.

“Officer Sutter sent out a message,” he says. “It is possible is contains knowledge of Mandalorian presence on Coruscant. We need to know who it went to, who has read it, and if its contents are dangerous.”

One of them, a tall woman with stringy hair comes forward. “I will find the message,” she says. “Share what news you have of Mandalore, and I will find out where your message has gone.”

 ----------------

Ahsoka may be a padawan in rank, but that does not mean she does not have the skill of a Jedi knight. She is a War padawan, raised and trained on the battlefield. Her schooling is a bit behind, but there are more important things to do than learn high level math and history. The moment she had enough Force awareness to learn how to filter toxins from her body, both Anakin and Obi-wan had cornered her at various points to teach her how to do it. She had been almost fifteen. Anakin had experienced a childhood in slavery. He knew what could happen to sentients when drugged. Obi-wan had been just as insistent, stating that being a Jedi wouldn’t protect her from the creeps that prowled the galaxy from the Outer Rim to the Senate itself. Neither had offered specific examples, though she sensed they both had memories they would never share. She hadn’t realized what they were protecting her from until she was a little older, a little more mature, and faced by a delegate that looked like he wanted to eat her. That delegate fell down a set of stairs the next day, breaking several bones. The clones claimed innocence, as did Anakin. She is certain they were involved, though she never asked. The training they gave her saved her life several times since then. Today is no different.  

She remains limp on the floor of the Mando’s ship. The stun bolt that hit her during the fight had only temporarily paralyzed her. When the Mando approached with a syringe, she had drastically increased her metabolism to near dangerous levels before succumbing to unconsciousness. Her body worked while she was asleep, burning through the sedative far faster than normal. It still took uncomfortably long to recover from it. Mandos knew Jedi could filter sedatives, but not at the rate that she had started. It was a risky maneuver increasing her metabolism so drastically and could have resulted in her never regaining consciousness, but she is no stranger to taking risks.

She had woken up sometime later being flown through the sky by this same Mando. Obviously, something had gone wrong with the speeder. They had landed on a building then rode a lift until they’d reached a hanger. She’d been dumped on the floor and left there as the Mando went to prepare the ship for departure.

Her fingers twitch as she finally burns through the last of the sedative. She rolls silently to her feet, eyeing the small cargo hold. She picks the lock on the cuffs and leaves them on the floor. She could fight or run. Running means the Mandos get away with only her word as evidence that they were ever here. The Jedi might believe her, or at least investigate, but the Senate wouldn’t. There could be more of them, hundreds of them on Coruscant, where the Jedi are supposed to be safe. Spying on all of them. There’s only one Mando on board. A very skilled, terrifying Mando, but still just one.

The ship rumbles as it takes off. The Mando will be most distracted now as she tries to pilot off Coruscant. Ahsoka breathes steadily, letting the Force infuse her body. She is capable. She can do this.

She leaps into the cockpit, her lightsabers flying immediately to her hands, summoned by the Force. They ignite within moments, their light casting shadows across her opponent’s face. The Mando glares at her and pulls out her own weapons. The close quarters offer Ahsoka the advantage with her reverse grip on her sabers and they both know it. Red blaster bolts bounce off the walls, though the Mando has to aim carefully so she doesn’t end up killing them both in a horrific crash. Ahsoka has no such qualms. Her shoto digs into the controls, shorting them out. The ship shudders. The Mando’s eyes widen briefly before she rushes at Ahsoka, the rockets in her boots activate, sending them both through the windshield and into the open air. Ahsoka grabs hold of the other women, entangling them. She lashes at the Mando’s ankle, deactivating one of the rockets and sending them into a slow uncontrollable descent. They tumble through the air, both grappling for control. Her shoto is torn from her grip, though she returns the favor by destroying the Mando’s blasters.

Her other lightsaber and hand are wrapped in cable by a disturbingly fast maneuver, resulting in their bodies being twisted around until the cable is digging into her neck. Ahsoka’s free hand reaches for the knife hidden in her belt. She pulls it out then jams into the Mando’s chest. The woman gives a cry of pain before managing to shove Ahsoka off her.

Ahsoka tumbles through open air, no longer assisted by the Mando’s one rocket boot. Its too far of a fall to land safely. Not even the Force could save her now.

The ground approaches. She spreads her limbs, trying to increase drag while also avoiding passing speeders. She is a point to be avoided. None of them have the skill to save her. If only Anakin were here. At least someone will have seen the Mando. They won’t get away. She’ll likely be dead soon enough.

She closes her eyes. She tries to ignore the fear. She has faced death before, a thousand times over. But not like this. Not alone.

And then she’s slowing down. Her eyes snap open as a tingling sensation spreads over her skin. It feels like a containment field, the electricity buzzing and zapping at her. And it’s very strong, rattling her bones and leaving her teeth chattering. A tractor beam, she realizes. But that’s impossible. They’re only used for tugging ships because they’re too strong, capable of crushing asteroid when a targeting system is interrupted. And will only get stronger if someone’s trying to grab her.

She gathers the Force around her, strengthening her body. She nods and gives a thumbs up, hoping that this is the reaction they were waiting for and that whoever it is, is not a Mando.

The vibration increases, echoing in her montrals painfully. A headache blooms. Her body feels like its being slowly torn apart. Tears burst forth and a scream follows.

And then she’s on solid ground. Or not ground, but metal. A ship. Not falling anymore but flying. Safe.

“Hey kid,” Captain Rex says. “Sorry about that.”


	9. The Inevitability of Defeat

The call from General Windu had been brief but had easily set the entire battalion on edge. Rex had been running out the door to the gunships, ready to plow through any Mandos that got in his way before being stopped by Trill. A nearly shiny clone with a brain that saved him from the clumsiness that would have gotten him decommissioned, Trill approached with a scaled down tractor beam in his arms.

“It’s for Commander Tano,” he had said. “It was supposed to give our gunships safer crashes, but it might work for Jedi if they reinforce their body with their Force powers. She just needs to know to do it. I’ve been trying to make it safe for us too but haven’t had much success.”

“Then bring it,” Rex had said, thinking it better to have it than not. Jedi have an unfortunate tendency to jump off buildings. It would be nice to be able to catch them.

Now, he is more than grateful after having managed to yank Ahsoka out of the sky, though he seems to have nearly shattered her bones in the process. She’s had worse injuries before, so he’s not too worried. He is, however, concerned about her mental stability. Launching herself out of a ship thousands of meters in the air while grappling with a Mando is his definition of insane. He does have to give her credit. The Mando is dead, Ahsoka’s knife buried in her chest. They’d grabbed the body out of the air, having far less trouble catching it since the rocket boots were still active and keeping her from falling too fast.

He crouches down, helping Ahsoka to lean back against the walls of the ship. “We tried to catch you sooner, but we couldn’t get a lock until you reached terminal velocity. You okay?”

“I feel like I got run over by a starship,” she says.

“I’m sorry. The jetpack troopers wouldn’t have reached you in time.”

“Better hurt than dead. Have any water?”

Rex pulls his canteen from his belt and offers it to her. She takes a few careful sips, before wincing and putting a hand to her cheek. Its likely a broken tooth judging by the bruising and the aggravation caused by the cool water. He lets her continue to drink. Being rehydrated is more important. He takes a few bacta patches from his belt and begins to apply them. Gel is applied to the bruises as carefully as he can. Ahsoka winces on occasion, but she is otherwise quiet and seems to be half asleep. The Force use and adrenaline rush have likely caught up to her.

“She okay?” Fives asks.

“She will be. Lot of bruising, but nothing fatal. How’s our dead Mando?”

“Still dead,” Fives says. “She’s got beskar gauntlets that I think might fit Ahsoka after her next growth spurt.”

“Jedi frown on trophy taking.”

“Its not trophy taking. Its not letting the best armor metal in the galaxy go to waste. Also, she’s got some sort of device on her. I don’t know what it does, but it seems to emit some sort of frequency.”

“Tracking device?”

“Doesn’t look like one. It kind of resembles a comm jammer. I’m leaving it to the tech experts to figure out. But she’s definitely Mando. Med scanner confirmed it.”

“Do we have an ID?”

“No. We don’t have enough info on what they look like under their helmets. There are some distant relations to a few dead Mandos we have DNA from, but that’s it. The Jedi can run a full autopsy. They’ll learn more.”

“Good. Tell the pilots to take us to the Temple.”

“On it, sir.”

Rex gently shifts Ahsoka on to her side, letting her lay down. Sleeping through the hum of a gunship’s engines is a skill learned through exhaustion. Its one he has always known. Its one he had seen Ahsoka learn as they slept in the tunnels of a city being shelled. Her montrals had been too sensitive to the sound vibrations to sleep through, leaving her increasingly irritable. The earmuffs and earplugs humans used couldn’t help her. The young woman had curled in hole in the wall, hands pressed over montrals during a particularly vicious round of bombing that had almost left her in tears. Their days in those dark tunnels had taught her how to sleep through it. It had also been the day he saw just how mortal a Jedi could be.

“Just rest, kid,” he says. “We’ll figure this out.”

 ---------------

Satine storms through the halls, her robes billowing around her in a cloud of greys and golds. Her sister is dead. The one person she loved, the only one she could ever trust, is dead. Her body is lost to the Republic, though her armor is here on Mandalore. The news had come as a holographic transmission showing a recording of Bo-katan falling through the skies with a knife embedded in her chest. She had screamed then, an agony as she had never known igniting in her bones. Mandalore would mourn with her, but first, she must have her vengeance.

A door slams open with enough force to dent the wall behind it. She rips open the isolation box and yanks the Jedi out. Kenobi lands in a crumpled heap with a quiet moan. He’s just skin and bones now, though most of that skin is covered in slowly healing burns, sores, and deep self-inflicted scratches. She would be pleased with the results the hallucinogen seems to have had, but rage is the only emotion she is capable of now.

She kicks him onto his back before placing a foot on his chest. He gasps at the added weight, body spasming in response. She leans forward, adding pressure, and grabs his chin, directing his unfocused and bleary eyes to her.

“My sister is dead,” she says. “The Jedi killed her.”

True fear, not a calculated emotional response, flickers across Kenobi’s face. He knows he’s going to pay for her sister’s death. He struggles feebly as she grabs his arm and drags him out of the room, though his attempts are half-hearted at best, without any hope in a positive outcome. He can barely walk, barely even stand. Satine is strong enough to overcome his weakness, dragging him when he falls until he manages to get his legs underneath him again. He leaves a trail of blood on the marble floor as his wounds reopen. That same blood splatters occasionally onto the fabric of her dress. She welcomes it.

Kenobi crumples into a wheezing heap when she throws him to the floor of her chambers. She reaches down and unlocks the Force inhibitor. Kenobi stiffens with pain. He strains against an unseen force, a wordless scream on his lips. After so long without the Force, the psychic backlash is supposedly excruciating. Satine watches as Kenobi writhes. His hands clutch at his head, fingers tangling in the matted and bloody mess of his hair. With the Force, he’ll recover enough strength to respond to her torture. She isn’t interested in his apathy. Only his pain.

She flings open the door to her fresher and sets the bathtub to fill itself. She returns to the main room and settles on the couch. She had sat with her sister here a hundred times over, discussing battle strategy or long term plans. They had leaned together on this couch when her nephew, Korkie, had been killed. He hadn’t even finished his beskar’gam. He had died a few years into the war, only sixteen years old, when his ship was destroyed by Republic forces. She and Bo-katan had displayed his beskar’gam in the throne room, a proud tribute to a child that had been their son in all but name.

Now, Bo-katan is gone. The last member of clan Kryze, besides herself, now existing only in memory. And now she is alone.

Well, not totally alone. Revenge can sustain her for a few years. A war can occupy her mind. She’ll have to find an heir. Mandalore without an heir is a recipe for civil war. But that is not an issue for today.

Kenobi has passed out. Blood drips from his nose, ears, and eyes. Likely the shock is finally beginning to pass. She could let him sleep it off, but Mandos are not known for their patience.

She pushes herself off the couch and up to the Jedi. A vicious kick to the rib brings to Jedi back to consciousness. He blinks up at her through bloodshot eyes, though the bleary look has faded. He reaches up slightly and she feels the pressure of a Force push, though it is nowhere near powerful enough to move her. The blood dripping from Kenobi’s nose intensifies and his head and hand fall back to the floor. He’s about to pass out again when she pulls him up and drags him into the ‘fresher.

“Deep breath,” she says before shoving his head into her filled bathtub. His hands scrabble at her arms, though starvation has left him too weak to hurt her. He remains still after realizing his own weakness until he can’t hold his breath. His body begins to twitch before moving to full spasms. She yanks him out of the water for a second, then shoves him back in. The twitching begins sooner. Another carefully timed pause for breath and he’s back in the water, body trembling under the grip she has on his head and neck. Another dunk and the water turns red with his blood.

She flips on her commlink for a moment, calling for one of her servants. “Get me a line to the Jedi council,” she says. “There’s someone I need to speak to.”

 ---------------

Benat stares down the hall in shock, more than a little afraid of the woman she is now working for. The duchess had just marched down the hall, dragging a man half-starved and covered in blood behind her. The blood remains as a gruesome trail from one room to the next. The cleaning droids will come through soon enough. Yet she cannot erase the memory of what she has seen. Mirial may need her to fight for Mandalore, but she can’t reconcile Mandalore’s cruelty with her own moral code. She had seen the video of the Jedi the Mandos had paraded through their capital city. Everyone has by now. And now she has confirmation that he is still alive, still being tortured. Perhaps that cruelty is reserved only for Jedi, but she cannot help but fear for herself and her people.

She steps out of the doorway and into the hall. She follows the blood trail back, curiosity and horror dragging her forward. Benat stops in front of a door just slightly ajar. A gentle tap lets it swing open. She notes the dent in the wall where the door must have slammed into it. There is a box in the center of the room. The lid is cast aside, leaning haphazardly against the wall. The box consists of an outer and inner metallic layer with some sort of soundproofing in between. A few syringes and bottles sit on a table beside it. A quick glance at the labels confirm them to be nutrients and hallucinogens. A small panel at the bottom of the box opens to the outside, likely functioning as an access panel for the syringes. It’s a shallow box and seems to be set up in a manner to allow it to be positioned in either a vertical or horizontal position. Her fingers run over the edge, noting the blood stains. With the lid on, it would likely be completely silent. An isolation chamber then. Sensory deprivation.

She swallows down the sickness rising in her throat. She’s a soldier, not a monster. She fights to protect her people. She’s not a mercenary, though both the duchess and her own senator seem to think she is. But this is not the tool of soldiers. Mandalore has crossed that line too often to claim that title. They’re monsters. They have to be, or they wouldn’t be able to live with themselves.

But what does that mean for Mirial? For her family? It means that living under the Mandalorian empire will allow this cruelty to spread to her home. It means that Republic rule would be better, but they won’t escape Mandalore’s grasp. Her people won’t rebel against it. They’ll become a part of this system gradually, hardly realizing the cruelty spreading amongst them. That means the Republic needs to win, though that would likely mean a military occupation. Though Mirial is far enough from the Inner Rim that maybe they won’t bother. She could side with the Republic, chose to spy for them, and risk torture and death by Mandos. Or she could side with Mandalore, fight their fight and hope the hatred of the Mandos will relax once the Jedi are dead. Mandalore will likely only remain united so long as they have an enemy. Any leader will realize that and will likely find someone else for the Mandos to hate. And it will spread throughout their empire, dragging Mirial along with them.

Its not a decision she wants to make, especially with so much of it based on speculation. For all she knows, the Republic could be just as bad. The Jedi could be the monsters the Mandos claim they are. But no one deserves to be locked in a box and tortured to death.

She turns away. The smell of blood lingers in her nose as she tries not to flee down the hall. There’s nothing she can do. Mirial has to come first. The Duchess promised them aid. And Benat will not allow her family to starve for the sake of one man.

 ---------------

Anakin crawls carefully from his hiding place. He’s spent days in that hole with only carefully timed breaks to keep himself from cramping up. He rolls his shoulders and stretches his back. No longer breathing the stale air of the storage closet, his exhaustion fades. Anakin activates one of the nearby computers and slices his way into the navigation controls. It looks like his spider droid completed its task and the results have finally been noticed. Their headed for a maintenance station deep in Mandalorian space. Just as he hoped they would. Unfortunately, its another day’s journey in hyperspace to reach it. He nearly groans aloud at the thought of getting back into his hiding place. The hours of being curled up, even with time outside for stretching every once in a while, is starting to wear at him.

He turns back to the computer, quietly absorbing himself in the task of memorizing where several of the other maintenance stations are located. They’re useful military targets, but he doesn’t dare send out a transmission with the information. He’ll just have to survive long enough to deliver it verbally. The long strings of coordinates aren’t easy to memorize, especially since there seems to be no rhyme or reason to placement. His mind searches for a pattern that isn’t there, leaving him quietly chanting numbers under his breath in an attempt to imprint them in his memory.

“Hey vod!” Only years of disciple keeps Anakin from jumping out of his skin. He’d been too focused on the memorization to notice the approaching Mando. Markings on the man’s chest plate note him as one of the officers. Someone who will be noticed if they go missing.

“Sir,” Anakin says, praying the man doesn’t know who he’s supposed to be.

“You’re supposed to be on duty. What are you doing down here?”

“My comm link was damaged during the battle. I didn’t receive the orders.”

“Well, in that case, get up to Deck 10.”

“Right away, sir.”

Anakin departs as quickly but as relaxed as possible. No need to make the officer think something is wrong. He steps into the turbolift and inputs the command for Deck 10. Hours with nothing else to do but review and practice his Mando’a skills have made his computer and starship navigation much easier. It was also a good distraction from thinking about what they’re doing to Obi-wan. His mind keeps rushing to the worst possible scenario he can think of. And yet he always gets the feeling its much worse.

The turbo lift door opens, and he steps out. He begins his patrol, mindful of the security cameras. He had tampered with the ones near where he was hiding and making sure they transmitted a clear hallway. That kind of work couldn’t be done easily and not without access to a computer. He could easily shut them off with the Force, but that would only draw attention to his position. All he has to do is patrol a starship. The clones do it all the time. He’s even done it, back when he was still a padawan and Obi-wan wanted to teach him how a starship’s crew should function. Like all his lessons, he complained about it. At the time, it was one of his ways to express his fear and anger with the war. Obi-wan had become the target of those emotional outbursts until Anakin had finally matured enough to find better ways of dealing with it. Things had actually gotten better with Obi-wan after his friend Palpatine had died, but that was certainly a coincidence.

He settles into a slow march through the halls, grateful to no longer be cooped up in the storage closet despite the greater risks of his now more exposed position. He just has to wait a few more hours, then they’ll be on the station and he can find himself a ride to Mandalore. Everything is fine.

 ---------------

Captain Kita-ji stares after the retreating form of the man wearing Yopul’s armor. Yopul had been just another man under his command, but he had a very distinct accent. One that this imposter had failed to imitate. He waits till the turbolift door closes before activating his commlink.

“This is Captain Kita-ji. I’ve sent a possible spy or intruder to Deck 10,” he says. Deck 10 is not a real deck. It’s a place designed to look like one and is placed just between decks nine and eleven. It’s a trap designed to disable possible intruders or drunk Mandos as quickly and efficiently as possible without wasting the troops to deal with it. Only the officers know of its true nature. It lets them seal off the entry ways then pump it full of gas designed to pass through the helmet filters. He can’t wait to see who’s underneath that helmet. Stealing a Mandos armor is punishable by a very long and agonizing death. Its been a long time since he’s had the chance to engage in anything more violent than shooting at targets from afar. “Activate the knockout gas. Command code y-p-nine-four-k.”

“Activated, Captain Kita-ji. We’ll have the prisoner waiting for you in cell eight.”

A smile spreads across his face. He’ll kill the man that dared to desecrate Yopul’s armor. No one, even if they are a Mando, will get away with that.


	10. Alternatives

As far as Commander Mi-Nata is concerned, Captain Kita-ji is an idiot who’s spent too much time reading bad holo-novels about the glory of Mandalore’s past. There’s a reason the man is almost sixty years old and hasn’t advanced beyond the rank of captain. He tends to fight too recklessly, usually resulting in the death of those under his command. He’s too obsessed with glory and honor to see a battle objectively. After a particularly devastating incident a few years ago, Mi-Nata had reassigned Kita-ji to the cruiser’s guns. And now the man is setting off Deck 10 and getting ready to torture someone to death. Its an exhausting mindset that Mi-Nata wishes would fall out of favor. He himself is the last of the Pilal clan, the survivor of their blood feud with the now extinct Yoro clan. The war with the Republic had distracted them from clan feuds, a change he is more than grateful for. Unfortunately, he still has to manage a ship full of Mandalorians who, when bored, like to dig up old feuds. And it seems that Kita-ji has just gotten bored.

“No, we’re not torturing anyone to death,” Mi-Nata says.

“But he’s wearing Yopul’s armor,” Kita-ji says, voice on the verge of whining. The two of them are standing outside the cell block, Mi-Nata blocking to door in.

“First of all, that tradition hasn’t been practiced in centuries. Second of all, you don’t even know Yopul. If anyone is going to decide a punishment, it will be someone of his clan or a close friend. And lastly, you need permission before torturing someone. And I’m not giving it.”

Kita-ji looks like he’s about to say something he’ll regret, but he manages to hold his tongue. At least he’s not challenging him to a fight. The last one had landed Kita-ji in the med bay for two weeks.

“Now get back to your station. I’ll deal with this.”

Kita-ji gives a stiff salute before disappearing, no doubt to sulk about the cowardice of commanding officers to his subordinates. Mi-Nata leaves him to it. The crew is used to Kita-ji’s complaining and rarely pay any attention to him unless he’s giving orders.

Mi-Nata opens the door to cell 8. The man in Yopul’s armor is slouched in a chair bolted to the floor with his forearms cuffed to the arms of the chair. Mi-Nata approaches, rather uncertain as to who it is that Kita-ji has picked up. For all he knows it could be a member of their crew who grabbed Yopul’s armor for one reason or another. He pulls off the man’s helmet, revealing a startlingly familiar face. Anakin Skywalker. The hero of the Republic

Skywalker is staring at him, evaluating. The scar over his eye only adds to the frighteningly intense look he is receiving. Mi-Nata stumbles backwards. He doesn’t have the resources to contain a Jedi. And he’s also certain he doesn’t have the skill to kill him.

“What if I just… let you leave?” Mi-Nata asks, startled at his own cowardice. Skywalker seems just as startled. He isn’t the blank face most Jedi are, which might make things just a bit easier. “Look, I don’t have the resources to hold you. And I’m convinced you would likely kill a good portion of my crew before we could kill you. I would like to avoid that. I could give you an escape pod and you can disappear. No one needs to die.”

Skywalker frowns. “What?”

“Look, I know must of us probably seem like blood thirsty monsters. Some of us are, but most of us aren’t. We’re loyal to Mandalore and we believe in the empire we’re building. But I don’t believe in the slaughter of the Jedi. You’re just another culture, which has come directly into conflict with our own. But that doesn’t mean one or the other needs to be slaughtered.”

“How long have you been practicing that speech?” Skywalker asks.

“Ever since the Duchess captured that other Jedi. I had to ask myself what I was fighting for. I believe Mandalore can rule an empire of the Outer Rim planets. We can fight against slavery because we have the military to do so. We can care for the planets the Republic can’t reach.”

“You truly believe that.”

“I do. And I don’t believe the Jedi are the monsters the Duchess claims they are.”

“And what makes you believe that?”

“I’m the last of my clan. I’ve seen what years of hatred can do to people. And it has to end. Not with slaughter, but acceptance.”

“Then will you help me?”

“What is your mission?”

“I’m trying to rescue the Jedi on Mandalore.”

The blood drains from Mi-Nata’s face. “Are you insane? You’ll only get yourself killed. Or worse, captured.”

“He’s my best friend. My brother. I can’t leave him there.”

“Please, Skywalker. Just go. I can’t betray the Mand’alor. I can’t help you.”

“Then just ignore me. Pretend I’m not here. I’ll be off your ship before the day is over.”

He sighs, feeling years’ worth of exhaustion resting on his shoulders. “If you kill the Duchess, this war will not end. Many of us wish for the war to end, but the murder of our leader will add fuel to a fire that is slowly burning itself out. Don’t give her a reason to escalate.” Mi-Nata glances away from Skywalker, terrified of how the Jedi will respond to his next suggestion. “I’ll leave you here, in this cell. Escape when we dock at maintenance and disappear. But when you find your friend, kill him and make it look like he died of his injuries. It would be merciful. Because even if you could get off Mandalore with your friend alive, the Duchess will be enraged. More Jedi will die. More Mandalorians will die. Please. This has to end.”

Skywalker is glaring at him, eyes boring through his helmet. Mi-Nata slowly steps back towards the door as the temperature in the room drops. He scrambles for the activation panel before fleeing entirely. Hopefully the Jedi will listen. Otherwise they’re all as good as dead.

 ----------------

“The message went to the Jedi temple,” the Mandalorian tech, Riis, says. Her dark eyes remain fixed on her computer, analyzing and picking apart data. Her time on Coruscant has been used to set up a network of backdoors leading to various systems in the Republic’s military systems. She even managed to get a bug into the Jedi’s communication system, but with most of the information encrypted, its practically useless except when dealing with the occasional civilian based transmission. Luckily, that is exactly what she is looking for. She pulls up the communication logs for the day and finds the message and its contents. Its been accessed. A flurry of encrypted messages afterwards suggests they took it seriously. A ping from traffic security informs of her an incident involving the rescue of a Jedi padawan. The same incident report notes the death of a possible Mandalorian. “They’ve heard it and have used it to rescue the Jedi you were supposed to grab.”

Kinsaza winces. He paces along the outer edge of the room. His hair sticks up at odd angles, evident of his fingers continually running through it. The warmth of the cramped room has left him sweating and irritable. Everything has gone wrong and now he has to find a way to dig himself out of this mess. “Anything else?” he asks.

“Bo-katan is dead. The rest of your squad has fled the planet.”

“What does that mean for us?”

“It means we run. We hide. The Jedi will hunt us down if we’re on planet.”

“So, we leave.”

“We can’t. Odds are Bo-katan had one of the biometric interference devices with her. The Jedi will find out what it does. They’ll lock down the planet until they’ve scanned everyone again.”

“That could take weeks.”

“Months, Kinsaza. But we will be found eventually. All of us. The Republic is terrified of us. We won’t even be safe in the lower levels. Even the criminals down there want nothing to do with us. They’ll kill us just as quickly as the Republic would.”

“How many are we?”

“Around a thousand or so, but we’re sequestered in small groups across the planet.”

“Only a thousand? There are trillions of people here.”

“We are the best at what we do. There is no need for more.”

“Are they all prepared to give their life for Mandalore?”

Riis turns away from her computers. “What are you asking of us?”

“We can either hide and run, then eventually get caught, or we can take a stand.”

“We can’t fight the troops here. They number in the thousands. We’d be dead before making a dent.  Besides, we’re spies.  We’re good at acting, at slicing, but not fighting. We’ve been trained to blend in, to slowly chip away at the Republic from the inside.”

“Who said anything about fighting? There are enough of us to make a serious dent in the Republic’s government. Maybe even the Jedi.”

“How?”

“What do you know about nano-droids?”

“Not much. Why?”

“I need you to get some for me. Lots of them.”

“What for?”

“You’ll see. I promise.”

“I’ll see what I can do, but the Republic’s military has a pretty tight grip on the supply.”

 ----------------

 Mace stands in the Council chambers, staring out onto the horizon as the sun began to rise. Depa Billaba, his former padawan, stands beside him. The rest of the chamber is empty, the rest of the masters either deployed or in the Halls of Healing. Depa herself is in physical therapy after losing a hand.

“Do we replace him?” Depa asks.

Mace shrugs. “He’s not dead yet.”

“The video was almost a week ago. We have no reason to believe he is still alive. At this point, I pray that he isn’t.”

“Skywalker would know if he was.”

“And where is Skywalker? You haven’t been kicking up a storm, so he’s not doing anything without authorization.”

“He’s deployed, Depa.”

“Without his troops and padawan? I think not.”

“Its on a need to know basis.”

“And who needs to know?”

“Just me and him.”

“Not even Tano?”

“The less people involved; the less chance things go wrong. Speaking of Tano, any word?”

“The 501st picked her up,” Depa says. “I authorized several tests based on the evidence they collected. Captain Rex says Tano is in one piece, though exhausted. She’s been sleeping it off. You might want to find a way to tell Skywalker. If he sensed even something of what happened to her—”

“He’s too far away,” Mace interrupts. “And we aren’t going to contact him unless he contacts us.”

“So long as you’re sure.”

“I am.”

They fall into a comfortable silence, both of them dipping slightly into meditation. It is not often they see each other in person. Depa is often on the battlefield and with the death of Master Yoda last year, Mace must remain on Coruscant as head of the Jedi Council. The Force itself has grown dark over the years, clouded by the conflict and misery that has plagued the galaxy. The two Councilors draw it around themselves as it whispers. They reach out to each other, their Force presences mingling before fading out into the Force.

A loud beep startles them out of their meditation. Mace turns away from the window and presses the button to accept the holo call. Only Jedi have the number and they know only to call in an emergency, which is why he is rather alarmed to see Duchess Satine Kryze appear in the tinged blue image of a hologram.

Depa’s hand flies towards her lightsaber, the brief flash of fear not contained by her usually calm nature. Mace reaches to disconnect the call. Kryze can’t have anything good to say.

“I wouldn’t do that,” she says. The hologram shrinks, the recording likely zooming out. A second figure forms in the hologram, this one kneeling with Kryze’s hand in their hair. She tilts the figure’s head up, revealing the bruised face of Obi-wan Kenobi. Water drips from the Jedi’s hair, giving him the look of a drowned womprat. “I want to speak to the Jedi who killed my sister. Ahsoka Tano.”

He doesn’t look at Depa, but they exchange brief feelings of concern and confusion. Kryze sent her own sister to Coruscant? “You are referring to the woman who attempted to kidnap Padawan Tano?” he asks.

Obi-wan gives a pained grasp as Kryze’s grip tightens. “Obviously,” she says. “I will speak to her. Now.”

_“Is this wise?”_ Depa asks telepathically.

_“Somehow, I don’t think we’re going to have a choice,”_ Mace thinks back.

His attention flickers back to Kryze when her hand moves towards her gauntlet. “He’s fitted with a neural interface,” she says. “I’m sure you’re aware of how painful they can be.” Obi-wan screams as she touches the control. She lets him fall out of her grip, leaving him to writhe painfully on the floor.

_“We can’t disconnect the call. She’ll only hurt him more,”_ Depa says.

_“He’s already being hurt.”_

_“But if we can even slightly diminish it, I’m hesitant to give the opportunity up.”_

“Summon Padawan Tano to the council room,” Mace says to his commlink before turning his attention back the duchess. She deactivates the interface, leaving Obi-wan gasping on the floor.

“I’m happy to see you can listen to reason,” Kryze says.

Mace’s gaze shifts from the duchess to Obi-wan. His friend is dying, though it’s a slow, drawn out process. Obi-wan shifts slightly, eyes finding Mace’s. It is not fear he sees there. It is misery, loneliness, and a profound exhaustion. He’s not even bound, though Mace doubts Obi-wan has the strength to do much beyond breath. His body is wasting away, leaving Obi-wan trapped inside it. Mace’s heart aches for him. Perhaps years ago, he might have reached for total detachment, but he does not allow himself to step so far back from the situation that he can no longer see it. It is a problem that had developed in the Order years ago. Their philosophy on nonattachment had become too strict, too impractical, to the point where they could barely interact with people outside the Temple. That had begun to change. The war had torn down the distance they had tried to create. Detachment didn’t save them from the pain of losing each other. It was better to make the time they had worth it, though Mace had been careful to ensure the Jedi understood the difference between possessiveness and love. It would not do to have Jedi so obsessed with another that they could not function objectively.

“Obi-wan,” he says quietly, wishing desperately to reach out. The younger man blinks up at him for a moment before his eyes flutter closed. Depa’s hand come to rest on his shoulder. He draws himself away, noting the narrowed gaze of the duchess and the anger storming underneath. She’ll take her anger out on Obi-wan. Provoking her would only add to Obi-wan suffering, though with her sister dead, Kryze has likely already focused that rage on the only Jedi within her reach.

The chamber’s doors open, revealing an exhausted and bruised Padawan Tano. The young woman’s eyes go wide when she sees the hologram, alarm bleeding out into the Force. Kryze’s icy gaze fixates on Ahsoka. “You killed my sister,” Kryze says. Tano pales slightly, fear mixing into her Force signature. “I wanted to tell you that I will kill you. Perhaps not today or tomorrow, but soon. And until then, I will be torturing Obi-wan here until something more interesting comes along. Which is unlikely.” A wicked smile crosses her face. “Unless, of course, you’d like to join us. I might even put him out of his misery if you do. Just a thought. Afterall, you Jedi are supposed to be so selfless.” Kryze steps forward, the heel of her shoe digging into Obi-wan’s back. He winces under the force but seems to have exhausted himself too much to attempt to push her off. “Until we meet again, Ahsoka Tano.”


	11. Spiraling Downwards

Obi-wan curls against the wall of Satine’s balcony, more terrified than he has ever been. He has spent the night alone in the freezing air, chilled to the bone. She had dunked him in the water until she had tired from holding him under. She had the endurance to make it last for hours. He did not. He’d choked down water until his heart had nearly stopped. He’d coughed water from his lungs until he couldn’t. Satine had called for medic to resuscitate him several times over. His chest feels bruised, his ribs likely cracked and broken. He doesn’t know what today will bring, but that is not what strikes terror in his heart.

He fears for Ahsoka. Satine must have ordered people after her, likely in an attempt to break him. Instead, Ahsoka managed to incur the wrath of the most powerful sentient in the galaxy. Satine had said she might kill him if Ahsoka chose to take his place. His body begs for death, for a release from the pain, but his heart protests, desperate for Ahsoka to remain safe. He hopes she has not adopted some of his self-sacrificing tendencies.

He fears for Anakin. Satine may not have targeted him, but perhaps it is only a matter of time. He’ll likely try to rescue him, though its unlikely any mission will be approved. He hopes Anakin hasn’t tried something. Ahsoka needs him. As strong as she is, Anakin should be there for her, help her protect herself. Anakin needs people. Hopefully, Anakin hasn’t gone off the rails. He may have matured since his rough teenage years, but he’s still reckless. Still Anakin.

He fears for Cody. His commander is out there, leading a battalion that will likely be split up, or already has been. He’s lost track of time. If he’s been missing long enough, the Jedi will have to fill the gap. They’ll split up his battalion, fill his seat on the Council. Maybe they’ll finally promote Cody to general, as he’s been requesting for years. Cody deserves it. He’ll be able to keep his brothers together and safe.

He fears for a life that will last for years. He fears that this war will never end. And he fears that eventually, he will no longer recognize himself.

 -----------------

Anakin picks apart the cuffs with practiced ease. Telekinesis is an exceptionally wonderful tool for breaking out of cells. He pulls his helmet back on. Its been long enough. He isn’t sure what to make of Mi-Nata, but if some Mandalorians are starting to protest the war, he’s inclined to let that continue. But he won’t show Satine mercy. She deserves death. A dark voice inside his head chants that she deserves much more than that for what she’s doing to Obi-wan. That voice demands that he tear her apart, watching as muscles and skin separate, as blood spills across marble floors. He wants to see her scream as he slides a knife between her ribs, watches the light fade from her eyes.

It’s the same voice that found him in the night of Tatooine when his mother died. He hadn’t been alone. The war had been going for almost three years at that point. The voice had called for slaughter. Rex had held him back. It’s a debt he will never be able to repay.

He slips through the hallways. He turns cameras away before approaching one of the exit points. No one turns him away, no one questions him. Perhaps Mi-Nata is involved. Or its all an elaborate trap. Satine could know he’s coming now. She could be waiting. But he has the same policy as Obi-wan when it comes to traps. They’re meant to be sprung.

The Mando station that he enters is filled with thousands of troops and droids. They’re all focused on the various ships in need of repairs. The voices and footsteps echo through the cavernous passageways and central points. Hover-carts whiz by bearing tons of fresh metal or the destroyed outer plating of large cruisers. A few restaurants and food stands dot the main passageways. It fills the air with the odor of Mando spices, easily overpowering his sense of smell. Tatooine may have strong spices, but it is nothing compared to Mandalore. A dare a few months back had resulted a lot of watering eyes and agonized yelling. He isn’t willing to try that food again, regardless of his undercover mission.

Passage through the crowds is an onslaught of sights and smells. His armor impacts with a thousand others. Only some of it is made of beskar, the clunk when his armor impacts with theirs is an easy indicator of the differing materials. It doesn’t have that same resonance, nor the same durability.

Finally, he finds a ship that’s heading back to Mandalore. It’s a small transport, only just big enough to hold a small company. There aren’t enough people for him to blend in easily among them. Which means he’ll have to hide. Wonderful. He has absolutely no desire to hide inside the walls for the few days it will take to get to Mandalore. Unfortunately, that means he needs to pick up some supplies. Food is a must. Water. A bucket with a lid to keep waste. Maybe something to tinker with. Meditating for days on end seems like a waste of time.

The supplies are easy enough to find, though somehow the ration bars have maintained Mandalore’s signature spice. He grabs a blanket too. He may have to hide, but his days on the previous ship means he isn’t above acquiring some small comforts. He wraps the rest of the supplies in the blanket before slipping onto the transport.

Without being challenged, he makes it to the engine room. From there, he has access to all the maintenance tunnels. He branches off to the unused sections until he finds a large enough gap to set up in. The blanket is a welcome mercy from the grated floor. He sets his supplies aside and removes some of the armor pieces. His mind sets to work on his new tinkering project, though its little more than a distraction from his building anxiety as the ship takes off. He’s going to Mandalore.

 -----------------

Benat stands inside the barracks of Mandalore, painting her the patterns of her tattoos on the armor that’s been provided. A line of navy diamonds dots the surface, split by the dark plastic of the t-shaped visor. More diamonds, ones usually hidden by her clothes, are painted over the chest plate. More are painted on the back, arm and leg plates. The pauldron is marked by her family’s sigil. The greys and pale greens that she paints the rest of the armor with allow her to fade into the background of many soldiers, whose armor is typically painted in extremely bright colors. She doesn’t need to stand out, not on a battlefield.

Her assignment has just been sent to her. For a few months, she’ll be shadowing Commander Mi-Nata onboard the _Buurenaar,_ before eventually being transported to her own ship as she did in Mirial’s military. Mi-Nata is supposed to teach her Mandalore’s military protocol. Her transport will be here in a few days, dispatched from one of the service stations. For now, she just has to prepare.

She’s read through the regs manual. She’s had her armor fitted. Its heavier than the usual blaster-treated garments she wears, though it’s easier to maneuver in than heavy skirts. There’s no more headdress, though she keeps a hood over her head inside the helmet. She had to remove some of the padding to make room for it, but its not a part of her culture she is willing to be parted from.

She packs the rest of her clothing in a bag. Her favorite blasters and a few knives fit in with the clothing. Her boots and dress uniform follow. A thick metal bracelet made a tarnished silver and engraved with flowers follows. Its too small for her, but not for her sister, who had died during the famine that hit several years back. Now she has a chance to make sure no one else loses sisters to a death that could easily have been prevented.

She pulls on the under armor jumpsuit. It hugs tightly to her body. It’s made of a thick weave, designed to protect the joints where the armor can’t cover. Its blaster resistant and nearly impervious to vibro-blades. It doesn’t do much for lightsabers, but she has no desire to face a Jedi. Her armor isn’t beskar, which means it won’t help with lightsabers either, but it will certainly help with blasters.

Once the paint is dry, she puts the armor on. It clicks into place, attaching with straps and snaps embedded with the under armor weave. Its not terribly restrictive, though she’ll need to practice in order to adjust to it. Maybe she can find some to spar with.

 -----------------

Ahsoka sits on the bunks inside the 501st barracks, head on her knees and desperately trying to keep herself from descending into misery. She’s killed Mandos before. Mandalorians, she tells herself. People with families, not faceless suits of armor. Families whom she has hurt, taken members from. Perhaps it was self-defense. It was, in the beginning. But she can’t help but feel that it has devolved. She’s allowed her enemy to become monsters, to be incapable of experiencing emotions. And she’s killed them without a second thought. She doesn’t even know how many she’s killed. She wants to believe there was no other choice. In war, its either kill or be killed. But that’s not who she wants to become. That’s not who she wants to be. She’s a teenager. She’s supposed to be playing pranks on fellow padawans and exploring her interests. She’s supposed to be sneaking out at night, meeting up with friends and exploring Coruscant’s nightlife, not fighting a war.

“Hey kid,” Rex says. “What’s going on?”

“The Duchess called,” she says.

“Wait. The duchess of Mandalore? She called you?”

Ahsoka nods. Her head remains bowed as she tightens her grip around her legs. “I killed her sister.”

“It was the right thing to do. She was trying to kidnap you.”

“It wasn’t just her in the holo. She had Master Obi-wan with her. Rex, he’s—” Her tears finally spill down her face. “He couldn’t even fight back.”

Rex jumps up onto the bunk and settles down next to her. His armor isn’t comfortable to lean against, but Ahsoka needs someone to hold on to. He settles an arm around her. She curls closer. “She said she would put him out of his misery if I came to her.”

Rex’s grip tightens. “She’d likely kill him,” he says.

“But wouldn’t that be better? At some point, death has to be better.”

“As long as he’s alive, there’s a chance we can rescue him.”

“You didn’t see him.”

“He wouldn’t want you to take his place. And even if you did, I don’t think she’d kill him.”

“How can you know that?”

“She’s sadistic. She’s been working on him for days. Weeks. She won’t let him go.”

“What do we do, Rex? Everything is going wrong and I don’t know how to fix it. Anakin is gone. He’s supposed to be here. Why isn’t he here? I’m seventeen. I’m not supposed to be killing people.”

“We have duty to the Republic. We fight this war to protect people. And sometimes we kill people. But they come on to that battlefield knowing full well they might die that day. It’s a risk we all take. Even the Mandos.”

“But you don’t even have a choice.”

“I choose to stay. For my brothers. For you and Skywalker. We’ll figure this out, Ahsoka.”

 -----------------

“Its designed to fool our bio-scanners,” Hall says. She tosses the small device to Windu, which he catches and examines. “It keeps us from identifying significant biomarkers.”

“Then there could be hundreds of Mandos on Coruscant,” Windu says.

“Possibly more,” Unduli says. She takes the device from Windu, twirling it between her fingers. “We don’t know how long they’ve had this. They could be everywhere.”

“They could be part of the reason for the increasing terrorist actions as of late.”

“Or that could just be you,” Hall says.

“Excuse me?” Windu asks.

“People are getting tired of the war. I’m just a tech, but even I have to deal with a lot of hate. They’re blaming us for keeping things going.”

Unduli sets the device aside. “Have things changed recently?” she asks.

Hall is a young woman, constantly in contact with the people of Coruscant. She’s no Jedi, so people aren’t afraid to speak near her. “Its only been getting worse. The people who know who I am are less than friendly. But there seems to be less hatred for the Jedi, more for the army.”

“What do you mean?”

“They’ve all seen what happened to Master Kenobi. Most of them realize you will all share that fate if we lose. They’ve forgotten the cruelty of Mandalore, of the events that lead up to the war. But they’re being reminded, at least slightly, since the Jedi are so far from everyone. They all see you as more than mortal. Which means you can handle to horrors. That maybe you even deserve it.” The blood drains from the faces of both Jedi masters. “But that’s not everyone,” Hall says, backpedaling.

“Its enough that you’d mention it,” Unduli says.

Hall shrugs. “People are scared. They’re frustrated with rationing and nights where the power goes out. They’re tired of high prices and streets filled with security troops. They’re afraid a draft is inevitable since Kamino can only grow clones so fast.”

“They aren’t even fighting in this war. Perhaps a draft would motivate them to bring it to an end,” Windu says.

“The common citizens don’t make that decision. The senate does. And right now, they don’t care,” Unduli says. “They aren’t motivated to stop a war that is only lining their pockets.”

“Surely the Mandos are getting tired of it,” Hall says.

“If they are, I haven’t seen any evidence, Windu says.

 -----------------

The map spread across their table is carefully marked by small red dots. Many of them encircle the Senate building. Several more dot the Jedi temple. Others are in the financial district. Still more are in the places with heavy tourism and in the transportation hubs. Kinsaza shifts a few dots around before running a few calculations. The explosive power of the nanotech isn’t quite as much as he hoped for. And it isn’t the most difficult part of his job. Somehow, he has to convince a bunch of Mandos that suicide bombing is their best way out. The problem is, they won’t be desperate enough. Not yet.

The question now is, how does he make them desperate. How does he corner them to the point that they have no choice but to do as he asks?

Closing the space ports would be a start. But what he needs is for the Jedi to start hunting them. He needs to turn the common people against them. He needs a witch hunt. Which means there needs to be an attack first, preferably on the common people. Maybe he can get one of the others involved. Someone with nothing left to lose.


	12. The Beginning of the End

Cody glances up at his brother, easily noting the added tension in Rex’s shoulders. They’ve known each other long enough that he knows it isn’t battle nerves or restlessness. “Vod?” Cody asks. “What is it?”

Rex abruptly throws himself in the chair opposite him. “Ahsoka wants to rescue Kenobi and I do too so we’re making a plan but we need someone with a higher rank who can requisition the stuff we need but I know you don’t like to disobey orders but the Jedi definitely won’t agree to this, its too risky, and I don’t want to them to leave Kenobi alone there for much longer because if I don’t go with her, Ahsoka will go alone and she’ll get killed,” Rex says, words spilling out.

“You can’t let her go.”

“She’ll go. I know her well enough to know that.”

“But you can’t let her. We’ve already got a plan in place.”

“How do you know that?”

“Windu spoke to me after I tried to launch my own rescue mission. He should have spoken to you, but he probably believed you had enough impulse control to go through official channels. You don’t need to launch a mission, but we can’t talk about it. There’s too much at stake to risk being overheard.”

Rex will figure out that its likely Skywalker running around with a half-baked rescue plan. Afterall, the man isn’t here, so there really is nowhere else he could be. “Will he succeed?” Rex asks.

“He always seems to.”

“How do we help?”

“We work on the backup plan.” Cody holds out his datapad. Rex takes it and his eyes flicker quickly over the text. Its an outline, one he’s been working on with Senator Amidala and Senator Organa. It details a very complicated public relations campaign designed to make the people demand Kenobi’s rescue, including the people of the Mandalorian Empire. Afterall, few people are likely tolerant of Kenobi’s treatment. Cody has fought this war long enough to know that the other side isn’t made of monsters, but other people who believe they’re right and are willing to kill to prove it. Perhaps that does make them monsters, but then he would have to include himself within the description.

“We need allies in the Mando empire to make this work,” Rex says.

“I know. Most of the citizens there likely don’t know what’s happening to Kenobi. It was a video designed to undermine the morale of the Republic. Perhaps some of them have seen, but it happened on Mandalore, where people have been raised to hate Jedi. But not every planet under their rule is like that. And we need to reach them.”

“How?”

Cody shakes his head. “Amidala and Organa are trying, but they aren’t getting anywhere. The Republic stands in their way. They go too far, and they’ll be accused of treason and that won’t help. But you can do something.”

“What?”

“Do you remember your mission to Hoth? Your official report says you crashed and nearly died of frostbite. You survived, but there’s more.”  

Rex stiffens. “I never told anyone about that,” he says.

“The security system in your shuttle was still running. Don’t worry, the footage is gone, but you need to contact him. He could be our way in.”

“Cody, he saved my life, but that doesn’t mean I can contact him.”

Cody raises an eyebrow. It’s a habit he’s picked up from Kenobi, though he will deny that fact till the day he dies.

Rex sighs. “Fine. I have a comm code. He said that if I ever needed to desert, he would help me.”

“And you kept it.”

“I couldn’t forget it as much as I tried. Even thinking of desertion felt like treason.”

“What’s his name?”

“Mi-Nata, but he was only a lieutenant then. He might be dead now.”

“Or he’s alive and can help. Give him a call, Rex. See if he’ll listen.”

“This feels like treason.”

“If it makes you feel better, I’ll make it an order.”

“Usually you’re the one who needs the push to walk in the grey zone of military protocol.”

“Not when my Jedi is on the line.”

 --------------------

Hanna, the governor of one of the southern cities on Mandalore, kneels before Satine’s thrown. All of the governors have made their customary visits in order to express their condolences for Bo-katan’s death. After the third hour long speech that was originally about Bo-katan but devolved into a bid to be her replacement, she had called for Obi-wan. The Jedi had spent the night freezing on her balcony until she had handed him off to some of her guards. They had been more than pleased. She had listened to his screams for a few minutes before going about her business for the day until she became bored. She ached to fight, to command a starship and lead her people to victory. Bo-katan still needs avenging. Tano has yet to fling herself at her feet to beg for Obi-wan’s life. She doesn’t relish the idea of torturing a young girl to death. Her efforts have always been devoted to men near her own age. It was the most satisfying, the most exciting. Her rage will have to carry her through Tano’s execution. Her pleasure can carry her through Obi-wan’s.

Hanna stops her pathetic bid for a place at Satine’s side when one of the palace guards comes in. He drags Obi-wan by the ankle, leaving a thin trail of blood behind them. The seemingly exhausted Jedi is limp in his grip. The guard picks him up and dumps him on the table. Satine waves him away. “Move, and I will take out your eyes,” she whispers in his ear before shoving the table up to her throne. She sits back down and takes one of his arms. She pulls out a knife and begins slowly carving into the skin. Its not a very sharp knife, designed to tear at the skin, a far more painful wound than a sharp cut. She can see him struggling not to twitch, to pull his hand away. She’ll push him to the brink of his self-control, though she has no real desire to cut out his eyes. She likes to see his terror. She will follow through if he does move, she must, but she is certain he won’t.

Satine waves for Hanna to continue. The governor has gone pale. Instead of continuing, she bows and makes an excuse to leave. It’s just the reaction Satine wanted. No more sniveling underlings. They don’t have anything important to say if they can’t stomach a little blood.

“Ahsoka hasn’t arrived yet,” she says as she carves. “We’ll have to send another message. I could send some footage of what the guards did to you.” She can see the tension in his body. He wants to protest, believing Ahsoka should never see that. That no one should. “Though I don’t want to scare her off. What do you think? So horrible she has to come, or not so terrible that she thinks she can handle it. Which do you think would be more effective?” He doesn’t respond. She doesn’t expect him to, nor does she need him to. “I think desperation is a more powerful motivator. She needs to be desperate to save you, which won’t happen if she thinks it is something you can handle for at least a few more days.”

There are tears on his face. It’s not enough. She pushes the knife a bit harder and a quiet cry escapes his lips.

The doors open as a palace guard announces her next caller. It’s a governor from a border planet. This one manages not to flee at the sight of her Jedi. Perhaps this one has something worthwhile to say.

“Kinsaza sent a message on an encrypted channel to me. He couldn’t send it directly to you in case the Republic detected it. I could only read the first part, which instructed me to bring it to you,” she says. She hands the datachip to Satine, who sets it into her holoprojector. She dismisses the governor and plays the message.

“This is Kinsaza. I’m trapped on Coruscant. The Republic won’t let us leave now that they know we’re here. But we’re going to strike a blow against the Republic. I’ve acquired nanotech bombs. We’re going to bomb the Senate, the Jedi Temple, most of the main hangers, the barracks, the shipyard, several public transports, and places with the most people. I know you don’t approve of suicide bombers, but this is the way to go down fighting. We will cripple the Republic. Our lives for Mandalore. I can’t say anything else, but this war will be over by the end of the week. The Republic will have no choice but to bow to our demands,” Kinsaza’s image says. “Ret'urcye mhi, Mand’alor.”

The holograph flickers out. “Interesting. What do you think, Obi-wan?” Satine says. She twists the knife. He doesn’t jerk, even as she nicks one of the nerves. He’s probably using the Force to keep himself still. It’s a nice trick, one that allows for her to continue her work in neatly curving lines. He’ll heal quickly enough, leaving a network of pink scars, an artwork of her own design. “Kinsaza is very good at his job. I wonder how much damage he could do to your Jedi temple. Do you think he will kill the children? He will. He’ll find them and burn them alive.”

She thinks he is afraid. It is hard to tell, but his eyes are closed. “Please,” he rasps out. “Don’t.” She smiles then.

“I can find holo footage. I can show you as your children scream and their skin peels and flakes away.”

“No, please,” he begs, more alert then she’s seen him in days. “They’re younglings. They’re innocent.” She shoves him back down when he tries to get up to meet her eyes and plead their case. “Please.”

“Oh, Obi-wan. Don’t you remember what I said?”

His eyes widen and he tries to twist away, but he isn’t fast enough. The tip of her knife cuts across his face in one swift motion. He tumbles to the floor, hands pressed over his face as blood seeps out between his fingers. He screams now. It is a scream of agony, of pain and frustration and, most importantly, despair. Hopelessness. She laughs.

 --------------------

Anakin unfolds himself from his hiding place in the ship’s walls. He slips easily into the crowd as he leaves the ship behind, passing by a woman in Mandalorian armor with Mirialan diamonds painted over the surface. She is notably nervous among a crowd of aggression and impatience mixed with gratitude to be home. Perhaps she’s new to all this.

He walks through Mandalore’s main port. Its bustling with more life than he expected. Once he leaves the military shuttle-points, he finds a planet just like any other. Many are in armor, though its rarely full armor. It seems to be only worn to denote clan associations. He isn’t sure why he thought Mandos wore their armor all the time. It seems silly now that he thinks about it. Wearing armor all the time is just impractical, no matter how much the clones swear by it. And even the clones do not wear their armor all the time. He’s just gotten so used to seeing the Mandos in armor that he forgot there was someone beneath it.

Finally, he is out of the port. He finds a city of glass and concrete, beautiful, but hidden within a biodome. There are murals along some of the walls. It takes him a moment to decipher the art style, at which point he finds himself staring at a mural of a Jedi, beheaded by the Mandalorian standing above them. The next mural recalls a slaughter of Jedi, a massacre, though it is labeled as a victory. The old wars with Mandalore have been memorialized here in gruesome images of cowering and dead Jedi. Perhaps he could acknowledge the skill of the artist, but he would much rather destroy the works. This isn’t art. This is sickness, cruelty, disguised as history.

The palace is a few miles away, but it is clearly visible. It towers above the other buildings, hanging above them in some cases. The dim sun that shines through the biodome reflects off the glass. It seems to become impossibly bright. He can barely look at it. The genius of that design only strikes him a moment later. Its quite difficult to plan a tactical strike when one can’t even look at the target without feeling like their eyes are being burned from their sockets.

He keeps moving, blending with crowd as he approaches the palace. And then he staggers. Anakin is close enough to sense Obi-wan now. His pain and humiliation stain this street, this place. The video superimposes itself across his vision. He can see Obi-wan stumble, see the blood that is left behind where his knees scrapped the concrete. He can see the crowd, can sense their hatred. He blinks away the memory. There is no blood on the street. No remnant of what happened here.

His mind reaches out towards Obi-wan and recoils just as quickly. There is pain, more than he imagined. There is agony and frustration. He can feel the ghost of shackles around his wrists and ankles. The desire to move, to struggle, is overpowering despite the chafing of metal against skin. He can feel despair. Obi-wan doesn’t think anyone’s coming. He’s alone, alone in a cage too small for him, his broken skin pressing against the metal wires of his prison. His face burns. The bandages wrapped around his head to protect his ruined eye covers both eyes, leaving him blind. He can’t move. The cage keeps him contained. The shackles keep him still. He’s tired, so tired, but there’s nowhere to go. Nowhere to rest. There is a touch he cannot move away from. There is a knife that tickles the bottom of his feet before slowly breaking through the skin. He can’t move, folded into a ball in a cage too small, feet and hands shackled into place. His shins and back press into the metal wires, slowly adding their own wounds to his skin. His chest presses into his legs and he can barely breath. He cries, though he has no tears left.

Anakin yanks himself away. He’s been standing too still for too long. People are starting to stare. There are tears on his face, though the helmet hides them. They are Obi-wan’s tears.

He walks faster, not carry of the attention he draws to himself. He’s spent enough time waiting. Enough time holding himself back. His rage bursts forth. No more. Mandalore will burn for this.

 --------------------

Coruscant’s Byln Park sits in the shadow of a much larger building. It sits on the rooftops of the many buildings below. It took years to build its platform and to grow the blue grass and red trees, but Ahsoka believes it is to most beautiful garden on Coruscant. Its not like the gardens in the Temple. The Temple has grown silent over the years. Its emptiness is all-encompassing. She likes it better here. There are thousands of people here, to rest, to play. Their voices are a soft buzz and an accompaniment to her own emotions. Here, she is not alone.

Ahsoka kneels in the soft blue grass, drifting in light meditation. The children are happy here, not afraid or tormented by the emotions of trillions. They laugh and tumble past her as they play tag. Their parents watch with small smiles on their face as they talk about how their children have grown to the other parents. They trade their favorite recipes and places that have the best children’s clothes. She can sense their love. She never knew her parents, and some part of her misses that. Did they ever look at her with this same love? The Jedi cared for her, helped her become who she was meant to be, though they don’t express love in the same way as most of the galaxy does. It is a quieter love, a deep compassion. She would never trade her life away, not for anything. But she can’t help but wonder.

“Are you Commander Tano?” a little Togruta girl, probably no more than six, asks. Ahsoka opens her eyes. She can’t stop the smile that spreads across her face at the joy the girl exudes. She nods. “I saw you on the holonet. You had two lightsabers.”

“Yes, I did.”

“You only have one. What happened to it?”

“Well, sometimes lightsabers get lost. I haven’t built a new one yet.”

“Why not?”

“Building a lightsaber is very complicated. It takes time.”

The girl runs off for a moment before returning with two sticks. One is painted green. The other is yellow. “These are my lightsabers,” the girl says. “And these are my friends.” There are more children behind her, all of them with sticks painted blue and green. There’s even a few purples mixed in. “We like to play Jedi. Do you want to play?”

She can feel the children’s hope. She can feel their parents’ fear. They are all watching her now. And then she feels something else. It’s hopelessness and maliciousness. It is desperation and determination. The Force screams of the danger. “Everybody get down!” she screams. She leaps in front of the children, arms outstretched, as the park bursts into flames around them.


	13. Ashes, Ashes

Mi-Nata, cup of caff in hand, sits behind his desk. His new assistant, Benat, will be here soon. She just boarded the transport from Mandalore. His comm link alerts him to an incoming message. No doubt its Benat, ready to inform him of her arrival time and whatever else can be accomplished in order to ingratiate herself within a few minutes of comm connection. He doesn’t want another blood thirsty teenager following him around. He’s got enough of those.

“Is this a secure connection?” someone asks over the comm. The voice is decidedly not female, so not Benat.

“Just a moment,” Mi-Nata says. He flips a switch, shutting down the room and readying electronic interference. It’s not unusual for other ship commanders to contact him. Many of them respect his military strategies. Sometimes they need advice, which he is happy to give. “Secure.”

The hologram on the comm link flickers to life, revealing the face of millions. A clone, though this one Mi-Nata remembers. Rex is older now, surprisingly so. Mi-Nata doesn’t know much about the natural growth cycle of clones, but he suddenly has the sinking feeling its nowhere near as slow as his own. He hadn’t expected Rex to call. They’d spent a few days together on Hoth towards the beginning of the war. They had both gone down in a dogfight. Their initial wrestling for control of the situation left them too exhausted to do much except curl next to each other in their combined blankets. It had been exceptionally difficult to convince Rex that helping a Mando survive wasn’t a betrayal to the Republic. They both needed each other if they were going to survive. He still has a few prosthetic toes from the freezing weather. He’d given the trooper his comm number. He’d been a bit out of it at the time.

“Rex?” Mi-Nata asks. He has new markings on his armor and a pauldron on his shoulder. “You got promoted.”

“I’m a captain now. You?”

“Commander.” Rex shifts from one foot to the other, obviously nervous about something. This is bordering on treason, especially for clones who are practically programmed to serve the Republic. Something is going on and he has the sinking feeling he’s about to be dragged into a mess that will eventually leave him dead. “What is it?”

“You know about Kenobi?”

Mi-Nata tries not to show his discomfort. He knows. He doesn’t feel good about it, but a lifetime on Mandalore has left his empathy for Jedi lacking. “Rex, I said I could get you out of the Republic if you needed. I can’t betray Mandalore.”

“Not Mandalore. We need the people of the empire to protest Kenobi’s treatment. If there’s enough pressure by the people, we might be able to negotiate his release.”

“Negotiate. You?” Mi-Nata says. “No offense, but I somehow doubt the Republic will listen to you.”

“I’ve got friends in high places.”

“You’ve certainly changed. I know there’s a video out there, though it was only sent to the Republic. Without crossover on the holonet, the general public doesn’t know much beyond what the Duchess supplies them with, which isn’t the gruesome bits. Most Mandalorians know what’s going on, but they’re not going to protest. Not against the Mand’alor.”

“We have the video. And more, that hasn't been released to the public. We just need to get it into Mandalore’s holonet.”

“This is dangerously close to treason, for both of us.”

“Please, Mi-Nata. Just watch it. Then decide.”

“Send me the video. But I’m not sticking my neck out for a Jedi.”

The comm link flickers off then beeps as several files come through. Sweat beads on his forehead. If someone finds out, he’ll be investigated. And then they’ll find out about the Jedi he let go and all the clones he chose not to execute but left on a planet with enough supplies to become self-sufficient. He left them without a ship or communications, but it’s better than being interrogated and executed, at least he hopes so.

But things need to change. Maybe this is a start. 

A siren blares through the corridors. Another attack. The videos will have to wait.

 ------------------

Benat’s room on the transport is shared with another new recruit, one who is busy introducing themselves to the other recruits onboard. She sets her bag down on the bunk. Its composed of a thin mattress and a course blanket. It’s an old transport, one that’s only used for ferrying new troops from one place to another.

She sheds her armor and drops it into the bins beneath her bunk. She paces through the small room, loosening her muscles. She stretches out, bending and testing her limits. Her shoulders and joints are sore. The new armor is different, weighing on the muscles differently. It’ll take time to adjust to, but it would be faster if she strengthened the muscles needed directly. She focuses on them now, flexing the muscles through a series of exercises designed for armor wearing.

She works until sweat beads down her forehead. Benat showers and returns to her bunk, curling up underneath the blanket. Its better to arrive rested. She wants to make a good first impression. Hopefully they aren’t anything like the Duchess.

 ------------------

Anakin brings the Force to bear as he cuts through the wall. The durasteel melts beneath his saber, but its slow. The Force adds to his saber’s power. The metal of the palace’s outer wall gives way beneath his strength. It’s the first place he found that wasn’t in view of one of the palace guards. He had frozen the cameras around the area with a burst of Force power. It is draining, but his strength in the Force is unparalleled.

He lifts the metal plate away, setting it down quietly. Avoiding the molten metal, he slips into the hall and replaces the plate. It doesn’t do much to disguise the very obvious damage, but it’ll hold up from afar. He releases his hold on the cameras outside. They aren’t pointed directly at the wall, so it should be okay for now.

Armor clanking softly, he jogs down the hallways, following the trail of pain from Obi-wan. Their bond is stronger now that he is closer, though Obi-wan isn’t aware of him yet. He shoves a door open, ready for a fight, but instead finds an empty cell. A large box sits in it. Obi-wan’s Force signature has seeped into the room. Its muffled, likely from an inhibitor, but it doesn’t disguise the pain. Or the blood. But he doesn’t have time to investigate.

A wave of his hand and the door closes behind him. He dashes down the hall to another room, this one a grand bedroom. Obi-wan’s presence is weaker here, overshadowed by a much darker presence he can only assume is the Duchess. His gaze finds the blood stain on the floor, but he moves on. He pushes open the door to the balcony and feels the echoes of a cold night and death. His heart skips a beat in fear that he’s following an echo of Obi-wan’s Force signature. That he’s already dead. But that fear fades when he smells and sees a body. It had been hung at some point, though the body is partially decayed now to the point where he can’t tell who it was, though it’s not Obi-wan. They’re too short.

He leaves the Duchess’s room behind, locating the point where Obi-wan’s signature next coalesces. He kills the guards as he goes, though he does attempt to hide their bodies in the rooms he passes. They’re all complicit in what’s been done here. Everything he sees only fuels the fire of rage. Perhaps its reckless, but he has no intention to leave anyone alive. But Obi-wan comes first, which means slaughtering Mandalorians has to wait.

He shoves open the door to the throne room. The guards there he tosses aside with a flick of his fingers. He’s caught them unaware. He enjoys the shock on their faces as the slam into the walls, sometimes with enough force to kill them instantly. Their necks twist and their bodies go slack. Blood dribbles from lips. Bones crack. And he smiles.

Anakin reels his anger back in once the guards are dead. His boots echo over the marble floor and leaves a trail of bloody footprints. He pushes open the next door and nearly runs back out. His Force sense is overwhelmed by pain and despair. He steels himself and steps inside.

There’s a cage on the floor with a figure folded within. There is blood on the floor. Anakin creeps forward, eyes flickering around the room. He crouches down in front of the cage. “Obi-wan?” he asks, barely more than a whisper. “It’s Anakin. Can you hear me?” He breaks the lock and opens the door. “Obi-wan? We need to get out of here.”

A hand slowly reaches out of the cage. Several of the nails are missing. The blood has dried in long trails. Anakin stretches out his own hand, gently brushing against it. Obi-wan’s hand yanks back. “Its Anakin,” he says again. Obi-wan shakes his head. Anakin reaches out with the Force along their bond. “Use the Force. I’m here. I’m real.”

Finally, he feels an answering pulse in the Force. “Anakin?” Obi-wan rasps out. His hand returns. Anakin takes it, letting Obi-wan brush his fingers over his own. “You feel dark.”

“I’ve been worried about you. Come on out.”

Tentatively, he pulls himself out of the cage. He adjusts the bandages on his head, revealing a bloodshot eye. The other remains covered. “Anakin,” he breathes.

“Can you walk?”

Obi-wan tries to get to his feet, but the cuts they carved into the skin make standing almost too painful. He leans heavily on Anakin and loops an arm around him. The weight of his own body wrenches his shoulder, but escape is more important. The hope that had died is back, burning bright enough to override everything else. They stumble down the hallways, trailing blood. It’s a skipping, stumbling run, barely faster than walking. Anakin tries not to push Obi-wan too fast, but the Force is screaming for them to move. The guards are closing in.

“Kenobi!” a woman’s voice screams. The Duchess, Anakin recognizes when Obi-wan freezes. And then he collapses, legs going out from under him. Anakin winces as he lifts his friend over his shoulders as carefully as possible to not aggravate the injuries. Obi-wan still cries out in pain, but there isn’t time for that. Anakin grasps the Force with both hands and runs. He smashes through a window and falls to the next building. Mandos with jetpacks and speeders flood from the palace. Perhaps he should have prepared a shuttle before attempting a rescue, but even with his skills as a pilot they would have been shot down within moments. And he couldn’t leave Obi-wan there for even a second longer. Hiding is their only option, for now. Once Obi-wan is safe, he’ll find them a way off planet, hopefully with a large explosion and lots of Mando casualties.

He slams into the roof of another building and breaks through. He runs, the Force enhancing his speed until it tugs him in another direction. Someplace safe, he hopes.

He drops down into the sewer system. It’s an easy enough place to lose them, but not to hide. They’ll be found eventually, but he uses it to cover his tracks. The Force whispers to him and he leaps upwards out of the sewer system. The sewage treatment plant has an unfortunate smell to it, but its only manned by droids. There are also enough pipes and wiring to hide behind. Hopefully a plant like this produces enough heat and is covered in enough machinery to disguise them from scanners.

He crawls underneath one of the large pipes and finds a gap between the machinery and the wall with just enough space for the two of them. He lays down a barely conscious Obi-wan. Anakin collapses as the prolonged Force use catches up to him. His eyes drift shut. He’ll find a way out of here. Later.

 --------------------

The ringing in her montrals drowns out all other noise. For the moment, she can hear nothing else. She tries to open her eyes. Her first attempt is unsuccessful as she discovers a layer of dirt and dust on her face. She reaches up to wipe it away with weirdly wet fingers. Bloody fingers, her brain supplies a few moments later.

Her eyes flicker open and she finds herself staring into a featureless expanse of grey. Or not quite featureless. Ash drifts through the smoke as tiny black specks. Sparks follow close behind, a brilliant orange, against a colorless sky.

Ahsoka rolls onto her side as she tries to get her body to stand up. She finds herself staring at a severed hand. The skin is grey, though if that was the color is used to be, she doesn’t know. Ash falls on it, a slow rain as the grass burns. The flames crawl towards it, licking at the skin and nails.

Flames. Very, very close flames. Too close.

Ahsoka scrambles backwards as the fire races towards her. Her wrist screams in pain. As does her leg, which has a large chunk of wood sticking out of it. But fire is the more immediate danger. More immediate than the blood on her hands and whatever is making her head hurt so much.

She calls upon the Force to clear the rest of the fog from her brain and siphon off as much of the pain as she can. There were children here, though she can’t see them now. She can’t sense them through the heavy presence of death and pain surrounding her. Screams and cries reach her montrals now, though she can’t pinpoint where they’re coming from.

Her instincts tell her to run. There is still danger here, possibly even a secondary device. No sentient medics will come in until the area is cleared, but the droids will. They’ll come in, save everyone, and then Skyguy will come make fun of her in the med bay to cheer her up and everything will be okay. Like before.

She coughs violently and her legs collapse beneath her. She twists to the side as she falls, avoiding stabbing the wood deeper into her leg. It still hurts as too many wounds are jostled and she finds herself staring into the blank eyes of a very dead Togruta, maybe a few years older than herself, with blood trailing from her lips and onto the ground. Ahsoka’s own clothing is soaked with her own blood. Too much blood, she realizes. Her Force shield wasn’t strong enough. It didn’t protect her from the shrapnel, only the shock wave. And perhaps that would have been enough if she had been standing a few feet further back.

She rolls onto her back, hoping gravity will assist in keeping the blood inside of her body that seems to be falling from a deep gash in her stomach. She presses a hand to it, calling on the Force to keep her grip strong. “Medic!” she yells, her voice oddly muffled in the smoke. “Medic!”

She slumps back against the grass as smoke fills her lungs. It’s not the first bomb that’s ever exploded right next to her. There are lots of bombs on the battlefield, though they’re mostly artillery shells and those vaporize whatever they touch. But this isn’t a battlefield. Skyguy and the 501st aren’t here.

“Remain calm,” a mechanized voice says. A med droid, drifting forward with a small armada of stretchers for the people it finds. Not a 501st medic, but good enough.

She smiles, a giddy sort of happiness bubbling up. She won’t die here. Not today.


	14. Out of Control

Something is being wrapped around him. Its surprisingly soft and warm, which is suspicious and alarming for more reasons than his addled brain can come up with at the moment, but any change only means the Duchess has come up with some new way to torture him. He tries to slide away, to quietly free himself before it starts to hurt.

“Obi-wan!” someone says. A male voice. Not the Duchess. A guard? “It’s Anakin. Open your eyes. You’re safe here.”

He can’t give in. This is a trick. It has to be. Anakin can’t be here. The Duchess wouldn’t allow it. Unless she captured him too. But Anakin is strong. She can’t capture him. Obi-wan cracks his eyes open slightly. Anakin is there, a small smile on his face.

But its not him. He can’t be here. “Use the Force, Master,” Anakin says. “Its me. I promise.”

Obi-wan shakes his head. “You can’t be here. You can’t. She’ll kill you.”

“Reach out,” Anakin says, gently nudging their latent Force bond. “It’s me. We’re safe.”

“Anakin?” Obi-wan whispers.

“I’m here. Drink this,” Anakin says, placing a straw in his mouth. “Its water.”

Obi-wan sips slowly. Too much too fast and he’ll likely throw it up, but he’s so thirsty and it takes all of his control to not drink it all at once.

“Where are we?” he asks.

“Sewage treatment plant.”

“Where?” Obi-wan asks, no longer certain he wants to know the answer.

“Still on Mandalore. I couldn’t get you out of there without alerting anyone. Any ship would have been shot down in an escape attempt, so we’re holing up here until I find us some way off planet.”

“They’ll find us. They’ll find us and they’ll kill you, Anakin. What were you thinking?”

“That there was no other way for me to save you. We’ll hide here until we can get some reinforcements.”

“Wait a minute.” The wheels in his mind are turning too slowly. “Did you come without a plan?”

Anakin smiles slightly. “Well, you’re finally sounding like your old self. You’ve been out of it ever since we got here. Your fever was really high, but it’s lower now. I brought some medical supplies, so those helped.”

“A plan, Anakin?” Obi-wan says, then coughs.

“There’s no way off this planet. I came here knowing that, but I wasn’t going to let you die like this.”

“Attachment.”

“Always.”

Obi-wan laughs. Of course, Anakin would come rescue him. Of course, he would abandon his duty to the Jedi, to the war, to everything, but right now Obi-wan can’t bring himself to care. Satine isn’t hurting him anymore. That’s all that matters.

“We’ll be okay,” Anakin says, wrapping an arm around Obi-wan. Obi-wan lets his head fall against Anakin’s shoulder. This doesn’t hurt. This isn’t Satine or her minions or Vizsla. This is Anakin. His padawan. His best friend. His eyes fall closed. He tries to shift closer to Anakin, to the warmth and the kindness he leaks into the Forcefinds he can’t. His legs won’t respond.

He tries to wiggle his toes. Tries to twitch. To move. To do anything. “Anakin,” Obi-wan says. “I can’t move my legs.”

Anakin curses under his breath. “I thought it was just exhaustion. When we were escaping, your legs gave out.”

“I don’t remember that.”

“You’re very sick. Its not unexpected. But the Duchess did something to you on our way out. I think it has something to do with the thing in your back.”

“It’s a neural interface.”

 “I’ve only ever read about those, but that’s some expensive tech. I don’t know if I’ll be able to access it without the right equipment. Obi-wan? Obi-wan?”

Obi-wan finds himself drifting again, not really sure he wants to deal with whatever Anakin is talking about right now. He just wants to rest. No Satine. No guards. Just to rest. Finally.

\--------------- 

Anakin isn’t sure what to do when Obi-wan suddenly drops back into unconsciousness. He’s asleep, not passed out, which is an improvement from before. But it’s hard to appreciate even that in comparison to the wounds all over his body. Anakin had discovered far too many blisters and bruises when he had tried to clean the blood from his friend earlier. Infection will set in soon. Whatever medicine they were using to keep Obi-wan alive isn’t going to be available on the street. His own medical supplies won’t last long. Not against something this severe.

For now, sleep will help, so he gently shifts Obi-wan so he’s lying on his side. He lifts the blanket slightly so he can get a better look at the neural interface. It’s a circular piece of metal, about six inches in diameter. He pokes gently at it, noting the healing skin around it. It’s likely been on since the beginning and probably has wires embedded deeply in the skin and around the spine. Not something he can just cut away, unless he wants to risk permanently paralyzing Obi-wan.

“Just rest,” Anakin says. “I’ll keep us safe. I promise.”

He replaces a few of the bandages gently, praying he doesn’t wake Obi-wan up. He injects another dose of antibiotics, but he’s running through them more quickly than he anticipated. He’ll have to steal some, but the authorities will be on the look out for that kind of theft. It would be the perfect opportunity for them to catch him or trace him back here. Neither of which are an option. Because as hopeless as Obi-wan seems to think the situation is, he can’t quite bring himself to believe they’re out of options.

\--------------- 

Mi-Nata stands on the bridge of his starship as the enemy retreats. Said enemy had only a been a few dissenters from a local system. A quick burst of fire from his own ship, destroying half their tiny fleet, had led the rest into an immediate retreat. “Stand down,” he says.

“Commander?”

“There’s no need to make martyrs of them. We’ll have to increase our presence on Krrrq, but only subtly. Crushing dissent only breeds more of it.”

“Are you sure? The Mand’alor—”

“The Mand’alor trusts my judgement. Let them go.”

The young lieutenant snaps a salute and sends the order down to the gunners. The low buzz of hundreds of cannons ceases, leaving only the faint sound of the generators. It’s a ceaseless murmur, one Mi-Nata has grown accustomed to, and one that keeps the entire ship alive. Life support, gravity, heat. It all comes back to the massive generators and their ceaseless humming.

“I’ll be in my quarters. The new recruits will be arriving shortly. Make sure no fights break out.”

“Understood sir. Will you not be meeting them?”

“I have a meeting to attend. Excuse me.”

Mi-Nata exits the bridge and walks down the hallways until he reaches his room. The files from Rex should be here by now. He seals the room and activates the files from Captain Rex.

The first is the original video, the one when the Duchess marched Kenobi through the palace grounds in front of crowds of Mandalorians, but only the most loyal of Mandalorians; the Kryzes, the Wrens, the Vizslas. Only the loyal clans that have the most to lose if Mandalore loses this war. They cheered for the humiliated Jedi because they had spent their whole lives believing it was right.

Other Mandalorians are less passionate in their hatred. Which is why the Duchess had released multiple versions of the video. The one he had seen, the one viewed by the Mandalorian empire, was less vicious, less humiliating. The Jedi was dressed in the video he saw and not quite so beaten. The crowd had been wild, but they had only jostled him.

This video tells a very different story. Kenobi had been stripped and beaten severely. The crowd was more violent, shoving him to the ground, kicking and grabbing him.

How had she edited it so smoothly? And which one is real?

He selects the next video. This one shows the Duchess threatening the Jedi, particularly a padawan called Ahsoka Tano, with Kenobi at her side. The next videos are in the same vein. She continues to threaten Tano and the Jedi. A note attached to the later videos inform him that Tano wasn’t present for the rest of them. The Council refused her request, despite Kryze’s threats and the torture of Kenobi that followed.

The next videos are without Kryze, but still addressed to Tano and the Jedi Council and sent by her. They contain more videos of Kenobi being tortured, mostly by the palace guards. They are brutally efficient and terribly cruel in their abuse. It’s the first time he hears Kenobi beg for mercy.

It would be a mercy to just kill him. Could he do that? Could he find a way to just push Kenobi over the edge? He must be on the strongest of drugs to even survive this. Even the slightest imbalance of drugs could kill him.

He shuts off the hologram when he hears a buzz at his door. He unseals the room and lets a young Mirilian in. “I am Lieutenant Benat,” she says. “I have been assigned as your assistant by the Mand’alor until I am ready to take command of my own battalion.”

Mi-Nata looks her over. She’s not a native born Mandalorian. That much is obvious in the way she walks and talks. But it seems the Duchess wishes to adopt her. “Good. Shall we spar?” Mi-Nata asks, hoping to get to know her and her fighting style.

“Of course, sir.”

“Good. I’ll get my armor.”

\--------------- 

Ahsoka does not growl, despite her every predatory instinct demanding it. The clones are not known for their bedside manner and tend to be a bit rough with patients in the name of efficiency. Afterall, clone medics usually have far more wounded than they have the ability to deal with. She supposes that it must be true for all GAR medics, clone or not.

She winces again as the medic finishes wrapping and stitching the shrapnel wounds on her arms and torso. “You’re good to go,” the medic says. “Get checked up by a healer in a few days. All the bacta is being used on the critical cases, so they’ll have to remove the stitches then.”

“We have no bacta stockpiles for emergencies?” Ahsoka asks.

“Apparently not,” the medic says. “That’s above my pay grade though.”

“I need a comm.”

“Don’t have any extras. Just go back home.”

“I am Commander Tano of the GAR. I need to use your comm.”

The medic scowls. “Go back to your Temple, Jedi. I’ve got civilians to save.”

“Commander!” another voice, with a slightly different inflection that she attributes to Rex, says. Rex slips easily through the crowds.  “Are you okay?”

“She’ll live,” the medic says, still scowling.

“Do we have a problem, Beyoun?” Rex asks.

“No problem, sir.”

“Come on, Commander,” Rex says. “Let’s get out of here.”

\--------------- 

“Not all clones are fans of the Jedi,” Rex says as they leave the medical center. “We’re loyal to the Republic, but some Jedi have snapped. The clones under them refuse to serve under Jedi again.”

Ahsoka doesn’t offer any response. Jedi have broken on the battlefield, falling to the Darkside and destroying everything in their path. They’ve tried to counteract it, but time is slowly breaking them. Even the clones, though they don’t have the Darkside to turn to when things go bad.

“We’ve been tasked to assist with investigating the bombing. The Judicial forces are working on it, they need more bodies. The 501st has been offered since General Skywalker is busy.”

“It won’t be the only one,” Ahsoka says in a rare display of prescience.

“The authorities have concluded that as well. It was a nano droid bomb. They traced them back to the source where they were robbed from. There are more missing. Many more. They’ve limited bacta usage for only the most life threatening injuries. Coruscant isn’t prepared for this.”

“What are we doing to stop this?”

“We’re scanning for the nano droids, but we can’t cover all of Coruscant. We’ve warned people to be on the look out for suspicious activity, but not about the possibility for more bombs. We don’t want to start a panic.”

“We also don’t want to start a witch hunt,” Ahsoka says.

“We might not have a choice. There could be hundreds of suicide or unwitting bombers out there.”

Rex’s comm link beeps. “Captain Rex,” General Windu says. “We can’t get a hold of Commander Tano. Have you seen her?”

“I’m here,” Ahsoka says as Rex angles the comm link to include them both in the hologram. “My comm was destroyed in the bombing.”

“You need to get back to the Temple. Immediately. Your life is in danger,” Windu says.

“Come on, Ahsoka,” Rex says as they begin to jog towards the Temple.

“What’s going on?” Ahsoka asks.

“Duchess Satine is enraged,” Windu says. “We believe Skywalker must have succeeded in rescuing Kenobi because she has put a bounty on your head. She offers four million credits for you, alive and mostly intact. She promised we would all be dead by the end of the week.”

“She’s going to bomb the Temple,” Ahsoka says.

“We figured as much. We’ve stepped up security. We’re scanning everyone that enters the Temple, especially now that we’ve adjusted our scanners to compensate for the device the Mandos had.”

“We’re almost to the Temple.”

“We’re sending Jedi out to meet you.”

\--------------- 

Cody sits in a small diner, across the table from two well-known senators, Bail and Padme. “Has there been any progress with Rex’s contact?” Bail asks.

“None yet,” Cody says. “But we think Skywalker has gotten Kenobi out of the palace, but they’re still stranded on Mandalore.”

“Then we need to get them both out of there. Before its too late,” Padme says.

“How?” Bail says. “We’ve been making progress with the Republic population, but not Mandalore’s. They have no sympathy for the Jedi.”

“We can try to convince them otherwise, but most importantly, we have to be there if they come to us.”


	15. Ticking Clock

Obi-wan wakes up dressed in thin clothes Anakin must have found for him during his fevered sleep and finds Anakin missing. The panic this causes is brought to a halt by the note sitting next to him. In Anakin’s scrawling handwriting, he states that he’s gone out to steal some medical supplies from across the city and that he’ll be back as soon as he can.

Obi-wan pulls himself up slightly. He can’t quite sit up all the way, his legs still uncooperative. His body feels less like he’d been run over by a speeder several times over, but more like he’d taken a nasty fall. Its an improvement, one he is certain Anakin is responsible for.

He no longer trails blood as he moves. Bandages and stitches cover nearly every inch of skin. The burns ache and sting. He leans against the cool, metal walls and closes his eyes. He reaches out into the Force and it reaches back.

He can sense the thousands of lives living in the city around him. He can hear their souls, crying, screaming, laughing, smiling. Its an onslaught of emotions, a tidal wave of pressure. He lets himself relax, lets the Force protect him and carry him. It takes away the pain, easing the terrible ache in his bones and in his muscles.

It cradles his soul, caressing the lacerations Satine had inflicted on his psyche. He relaxes further, letting himself drift. His emotions slip away into the Force, allowing him to finally find peace.

It’s a fleeting moment as he senses a much more malevolent presence. Multiple presences. Looking for him, he realizes. Obi-wan senses their intent, senses their desire to please Satine and to hurt a Jedi.

He huddles in the corner, hiding in the Force and the shadows. He can’t fight them. But he can hide. He slips further back into the shadows and then wedges himself behind one of the pipes. It puts pressure on his still healing ribs. The heat of the pipes burns, but he keeps quiet as he senses the Mandalorian patrol entering the building. He clings to the Force, wrapping it around him and trying to use it to hide.

 

Metal boots clank against the grated floor as jetpacks shut down and their pilots land. They speak through their helmet coms, voices contained within the helmets and leaving the squad silent. They slink through the sewage treatment plant, scanning for heat signatures.

They shake their heads once they discover the hot water and the pipes that contain it. The metal and the heat interfere with their scanners. “We’ll have to do this visually,” the leader says. “Keep in pairs. Spread out and search every inch of this place.”

They spread out, looking over pipes and crawling up catwalks. They shove aside spare stacks equipment, sending boxes tumbling with clangs that echo through the whole room.

They work steadily inward, circling. Like vultures closing in on their prey.

 

Obi-wan closes his eyes. He’s trying to keep himself calm, but its only becoming more difficult as the Mandos circle closer and the tightness of his hiding spot closes hangs over him. The Force is slipping from his grasp as he becomes more panicked.

He can’t go back. Not again.

He should have killed himself when he had the chance. Now, he doesn’t have the strength to pull himself out of his tightly wedged hiding spot. He can’t bring his arms up, can’t bend them enough to cut his own wrists.

His breath is coming faster. The memory of the isolation box is coming back, slowly crawling up his spine. The confined space. The pressure. The inability to truly breath. He can’t move.

He shrieks when his body shifts as someone pulls him out, pulling on the skin. He tumbles onto the cold, sharp floor.

A Mando stands above him. The dark visor meets his eyes. Laughter, cold and cruel, echoes through the building. A metal boot lands on his wrist, effectively pinning him. “Hello, Jedi,” the Mando says.

 ---------------

Ahsoka sprints up the steps to the entrance to the Jedi Temple. Rex follows, just a little behind, blaster raised and helmet on as he scans the area. Several Temple guards race down to meet them, lightsaber pikes raised to defend them. Ahsoka can sense several malevolent presences converging on them, but they haven’t fired, likely discouraged by so many Jedi.

Blood starts to trickle down her leg. One of the shrapnel wounds has torn open. It soaks into her leggings then slips into her boots. Its not much, but she’s certain the Jedi Healers will be unhappy with her. Like her master and grandmaster, she’s a budding irritant for the healers, constantly fleeing from the Halls and the medics. Skyguy and Master Obi-wan were a little too good at dragging her back there. Probably because they were both used to dragging the other back.

Her bond with her master is silenced by distance. He’s rescued Master Obi-wan, but she doesn’t know how he’s going to get them off Mandalore. The Force whispers to her, warning of a coming darkness. A terrible, inevitable darkness centering around Anakin. He’s being pushed towards a cliff. And she’s no longer there to hold him back.

She stumbles into the Temple and the doors close behind the group.

“Ahsoka?” Rex asks. “You’re bleeding again.”

“We’re going to the Halls of Healing,” one of the Temple Guards says.

Ahsoka nods and follows. She knows better than to disobey a Temple Guard. They aren’t going to laugh at her antics or appreciate her humor. Likely she’ll be told the humor is inappropriate for a Jedi and that she’ll never amount to much more then the Padawan of the Chosen One. And while that is an impressive title and one she knows she has earned a dozen times over, she didn’t used to be this. She was a small, reckless Initiate with too much to lose. But she was never in danger of being sent from the Temple. There were too many dead Jedi padawans and too much of a need for Jedi for any of them to do anything but become healers or commanders.

She winces as they enter the Halls of Healing and a padawan guides her to sit on an exam table. Padawan Gee, a few years younger than Ahsoka, smiles and begins to clean the wound. “Are you in pain?” Gee asks. 

“Not much,” Ahsoka says.

“I’ll inject a local anesthetic before stitching the wound. I’ve got some bacta bandages. We can put them on the most visible wounds, keep them from scarring,” Gee says. “But the bacta tanks are full and we’re low on bacta in general.”

“I’d appreciate anything you can spare.”

“Great,” Gee says. “Now hold still.”

The young healer leans over Ahsoka’s leg and begins stitching the wound on her outer thigh. Ahsoka watches her work, no longer bothered by the sight of blood. She’s seen too many wounds to be squeamish now. She’s hand-stitched too many wounds when the medics were overwhelmed and reinforcements nonexistent to even react.

“I know I’m not supposed to ask,” Gee says. “But is General Skywalker okay? He’s not in the Temple. No one knows where he is.”

“He’s on a mission,” Ahsoka says. “It’s classified.”

“Oh.” Gee frowns and looks at the ground. “Anything about Master Kenobi?”

“You know I can’t talk about him.”

“I know. But we’re all worried. They’re heroes. We need them back.”

Ahsoka stands up as Gee finishes. “Thank you, Gee.”

“Be careful, Commander,” Gee says. “I don’t want to have to examine your body.”

“You’re doing the autopsies?”

“All the healers are in the field and dealing with live patients. And I can’t accidentally hurt someone who’s already dead.”

Ahsoka nods. Everyone has a part to play. If Gee can’t fight on the battlefield and isn’t skilled enough to be a full healer yet, then it makes sense that she would handle the small wounds and the care of the dead. “Thanks for your help, Gee,” Ahsoka says.

“Ahsoka!” Rex says as he runs in. “Someone just broke stormed through the Temple entrance. He set the explosive scanner off, the guards tried to stop him, but he fought past them. He’s loose in the Temple somewhere.”

“Crèche, Halls of Healing, Communications Center,” Ahsoka says. “They’re the most vulnerable.”

“We’re already evacuating, but—” Rex glances down. “They could be after you. I’ve got orders to find you somewhere isolated and away from other Jedi and civilians. General Windu wants to lay a trap.”

“Sounds like a plan. Got somewhere in mind?”

“Training Salles in the north east edge. Its far away from everything important and not very popular,” Gee says. “Its also reinforced with medical seals.” Rex stares at her. “It’s part of our quarantine protocols.”

“Good,” Ahsoka says. “I’m going.”

“Be careful,” Gee says. “I can call the other healers and get them to seal off the area. It would minimize the damage of the blast if things go wrong.”

“Thank you,” Ahsoka says. “Come on, Rex. We’ll let Windu know what’s happening on the way.”

 ---------------

Its not often that Mi-Nata loses when sparring. He winces as he dabs a bit of bacta around his black eye. He stands within the refresher in his quarter, examining the bruises on his back and chest. Benat had wiped the floor with him. She’s sitting out in his office within his quarters, tending to the few bruises he had barely managed to inflict.

From the sparring, he learned that was disciplined and intelligent. She hadn’t resorted to any dirty tricks, but she hadn’t needed to. She hadn’t been overly cruel in subduing him. She’s a professional, a powerful one at that. Intelligent, but not bloodthirsty. That’s a nice change, but he’ll have to be careful with any interaction he has with Rex.

His heart nearly stops. He left her in his office. Unsupervised. With a datapad full of incriminating evidence if she decided to snoop around. He doesn’t doubt she has the hacking skills to open the datapad if she desired. She could be a spy for the Duchess. She could be a spy for her own planet. It would be in her best interests to know if there’s anything being planned that would affect them. She could be anything. Why did he trust her? Why did he let his guard down?

He bursts out of the refresher to find the Mirialan staring at his datapad. She pulls a blaster on him. He stills and holds his hands up. His eyes flicker to the datapad. “Is this a test?” she asks. “Are you trying to prove my loyalty?”

“And if it were?” Mi-Nata asks.

“I would say this is a pretty sick way of doing it. And besides, the Duchess knows my loyalties lie with Mirial. Not Mandalore. And if its not a test, I need to know exactly why you have these videos. Because if you’re some kind of freak, I’m going to request a transfer,” Benat says. He opens his mouth to speak, but she cuts him off. “Don’t lie to me. I might just kill you if you do.”

“I have a… contact in the Republic. They want to convince Mandalore to release the Jedi by showing how brutal the Duchess is. They sent me the videos. They wanted me to get them onto Mandalore’s holonet to convince people to demand his release. The Republic’s citizens are demanding it, but Mandalore’s don’t know what she’s really doing to him. The Duchess released altered videos to her empire. I have the originals now. I can prove they’re original. I can get a droid analyst in here.”

“You don’t have to,” Benat says. “I saw him. Obi-wan Kenobi. The Jedi. She kept him in an isolation box.”

Mi-Nata slowly lowers his hands. “I can’t serve a Mand’alor that does that. But I can’t betray Mandalore.”

“And I have to serve Mirial. That means I can’t betray Mandalore either.”

“But do you want to help him?”

“I don’t want to be involved. I can’t be. Mirial needs aid badly. But I won’t report you,” she says. “Just be more careful with your data.”

“Please, Benat. You have access to a whole planet that could rise up in support of him.”

“The Duchess doesn’t care about Mirial. No one does. My people are starving. They’ve been crying out for months. No one has done anything. And I have a chance to fix that. I won’t risk it. Not for anything. I’m sorry.”

 ---------------

Kinsaza jogs through the Jedi Temple, wrapped in a brown Jedi robe that he stole off a padawan. Said padawan is dead in a storage closet a few levels below. It had been a Wookie, their robe just large enough to fully hide Kinsaza. He’d been lucky. He had thought he would have to kill an adult knight, which he wouldn’t have been able to do quietly and quickly.

He keeps his mind carefully blank of intention, using the years of mental training to prevent the Jedi from sensing him immediately. He passes among them as alarms sound. His entrance into the Temple hadn’t been subtle. It wasn’t meant to be. More Mandos will arrive with their explosives-laced blood. Many more are already taking up positions.

He had tried to kill Tano with the first bomb. It was the quickest way to test out Coruscant’s response time. They needed to have the timing right if the twice-exploding nano droids were going to take out both the initial targets and as many first responders as possible. The unfortunate usage of droid medics limits their ability to attack first responders, but with enough bombs, sentient responders will have to enter the bomb sites if people are going to be saved. Having the chance to kill Tano had been an added bonus.

Unfortunately, she still lived. She’s here though. Bo-katan will be avenged. But first, he needs to ensure the others can get into the Temple.

He sweeps down to the lower levels, finding an unused, but still guarded door. Its one so far out of the way, so unknown, that the guard here is likely to be more inexperienced. He attacks without warning, fighting with every inch of skill and desperation that he has accumulated through the years. The Temple Guard stumbles under his onslaught. The yellow lightsaber pike ignites.

Kinsaza takes a swing at the Temple Guard, distracting him as the rest of his suicide bombers come in. They finish off the guard within moments.

“Everything going well?” Kinsaza asks.

“Our operatives have taken up strategic positions in all locations,” one says.

“Where’s Riis?”

“Here,” she says, stepping forward.

“Are the cameras ready?”

“I’ve got the feeds from surrounding cameras hooked directly to the Duchess’s palace. The rest of us have cameras implanted in the eye. Those feeds are also going to the Duchess.”

“Implant mine now. Then start the timer. We’ve got thirty minutes before we’re all going up. And we’re taking the Republic with us.”

 


	16. Too Late

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we are nearing the end.

The dragon rears its head the moment Anakin returns to the sewage plant. His rage boils up when he sees the Mandalorian standing over Obi-wan. His friend, his brother, is pinned underneath the man’s boot and held at blaster-point. Tears are streaming down Obi-wan’s face as he tries to breath through the panic and fear that consume him.

Anakin’s lightsaber ignites and chops off the head of the Mandalorian. The body tumbles forward onto Obi-wan. “Anakin,” Obi-wan whispers, trying to reach out to him.

But Anakin isn’t listening. He’s watching as the rest of the Mandalorians come charging in, alerted by the sound of his lightsaber. The dragon roars and Anakin attacks.

His blade and the Force come to his aid, tearing through the squad of Mandos within seconds. He growls at them and throws them into the wall. Their armor and bones shatter.

He stomps over to them, separating heads from necks to ensure they never get back up.

“Anakin,” Obi-wan says. “Anakin, stop.”

Alarms begin to blare in the streets outside. “You aren’t getting out of here, Jedi,” one of the Mandos says as she spits blood out of her mouth. “The entire population will descend on this place.”

“Then I’ll kill every one of them,” Anakin says as he brings his saber down on her neck. “For daring to lay a hand on him.”

Metallic boots land on the streets in a constant drum beat as jetpacks shut down and Mandos pour out of the sky.

“Anakin,” Obi-wan says as tries to push the armored body off of him. “Anakin, please.” Anakin doesn’t hear as he senses the arrival of hundreds of soldiers.

Darkness answers his call when Anakin steps out into the street. “Who’s first?”

\--------

Satine, dressed in full beskar’gam, lands silently on the roof, the clank that usually accompanies landing long ago trained out of her and assisted by the shock absorbers in her boots. She cuts open a window and rolls inside. She slinks downwards, past the battle raging outside, and to the ground floor. She finds her lovely Jedi pinned under the body of one of her fallen soldiers.

“Obi-wan,” she whispers.

The Jedi jerks and renews his struggles.

She kneels down at his side and brushes his hair of his eyes. “Relax, darling,” she says. “I don’t need to hurt you anymore. Now just wait here, I’m going to go deal with your padawan.”  

“No,” he says. “Not Anakin, no.”

She shushes him, then smiles. She adjusts the body pinning him, ensuring he stays right where he is. “Don’t worry. I’ll take you home soon enough.”

“No,” Obi-wan says, reaching slowly for the Mando’s knife, still sheathed on the man’s belt. His fingers curl tightly around the hilt as he reaches for the Force. “Not again.”

The Force comes to his aid in a tidal wave, nearly drowning him as he struggles to keep his head above the water. He jerks his hand and the knife flies across the room with unnatural force and speed. It slams through the visor of Satine’s helmet, embedding itself into one of her eyes.

She screams as the pain overwhelms her, forcing her to her knees. Obi-wan struggles out from underneath the body as the Force starts to fade away again. His head aches and pulses as he struggles to get himself back under control. The one moment of peace, of drowning in the Force, is gone. The last threads of consciousness are slowly being torn away as pain, emotional and physical, threaten to drag him into the darkness. “Anakin,” he says, feeling the darkness, the anger, emanating from his apprentice. “Anakin.”

He drags his broken body and uncooperative legs towards the door until he doesn’t have the strength to move one inch further. They have to run.

Obi-wan tries to reach out for Anakin but meets only a staticky silence. Unconsciousness.

His arms give out. He will not make Anakin face imprisonment alone. He can’t.

\--------

The Senate, informed by the Jedi of the nano droid threat, is in chaos even as it struggles to maintain lockdown. The small army of senate guards are running from room to room, screening everyone they find for nano droids. Those without are escorted from the building. So far, they’ve only found one, who promptly blew themselves up, taking the squad of clones and a dozen senators with them.

Cody is among the small army, racing through the halls with a blood analyzer. The new plan is not to confront anyone who tests positively for nano droids. The plan is to lock them in the room with whomever is with them and evacuate the surrounding rooms as quickly as possible. Whoever is unlucky enough to be with them will have to die with them. They won’t be able to evacuate them without alerting the bomber, at which point both soldiers and civilians would be killed.

The higher ups decided that it was a waste of resources to send the clones to be slaughtered. Cody is certain that decision is based on the hope that they might just be able to get the hostages out. It’s a foolish hope, but at least his brothers aren’t being sent to their deaths today. They have a fighting chance. Or so he hopes.

This isn’t going to bring peace with Mandalore. It will prolong the war and increase the hatred the Republic already has for the Empire. He hopes Senator Amidala and Organa survive this. They’re his only allies, the only ones willing to talk to Mandalore. They’re his only chance of getting his Jedi back and ending this war.

\--------

Windu sweeps through the Jedi Temple. There are more bombers, armed with the missing nanodroids. Cutting them down with energy weapons, lightsabers and blaster alike, would only set them off. Containment is the only option, as Windu doubts these bombs could be stopped simply by knocking them out. A timer is a likely option, the only one that ensures these bombs go off, regardless of interference. The question is, how much time does he have? Evacuating the Temple would take hours, possibly days. Evacuations for the creche have already begun, but it’s a slow process. Too slow.

They’re trying to scan for the bombers among the Jedi population and evacuating those cleared, but it’s impossible to reach everyone in time.

All he can do now is try to lure them towards high ranking targets, particularly himself, Master Yoda, Padawan Tano, and any other Masters, that have retreated to the rarely used sections of the Temple, far away from other Jedi and critical structural supports.

Using faked comm signals, messages, and rumors, they’ve had some success. A few bombers have been contained in the isolate sections until they either blow themselves up or they come up with a way to disarm the nano droids. Yoda had had one trapped in the Council chambers until he exploded, nearly killing Yoda as the Jedi master fled the tower.

Windu strides through the hallways, trying to draw attention to himself as he repeats a fake comm message to Padawan Tano. “I’m on my way to you, Padawan Tano,” he says. Hopefully, the bombers will follow him and try to kill the two of them at once. He’ll lead them into an isolated section of the Temple, throw them into a room, and run like hell. Tano and Rex are doing the same thing, leading them to the training rooms they had discussed, as are Yoda and several other Council members, using whatever targets they can think of.

He hadn’t wanted Tano involved, but he couldn’t deny that time was of the essence. She could dispatch another two or three bombers that would have killed someone. She may be a Padawan, but she’s a remarkable one. Skywalker won’t be pleased his padawan is willing throwing herself into danger, but it’s the only option they have.

Windu turns a corner and realizes someone is following him. Good. One less bomb. He can’t help the gnawing fear that the nano droids could have been injected without someone’s knowledge. Anyone of them could go off, could kill everyone around them. He has instructed people to get as far from each other as possible, but that’s all he can do. He can deal with the ones that chose to be here, the ones meant to target certain Jedi and certain assets.

Its not enough. The Force confirms that thought even as it shudders with danger. They’re out of time.

\--------

He’s standing right of her, chilly eyes boring into her soul. He’s wrapped in a Jedi robe, but he’s no Jedi. Darkness and rage bleed off his in waves.

Ahsoka stills her racing heart and returns his stare. She will not cower before him. She stands tall and prepares to Force push him out the nearest window. Its not the best option, especially as she isn’t certain where he’ll land or when exactly the bomb will go off. Having him explode in mid air would be ideal, but she has not way of timing it. So, she delays.

“You’re shorter than I expected,” she says, realizing she sounds like Anakin when he’s trying to sound like Obi-wan.

“Aren’t Togruta supposed to be tall?” he asks in response.

“I may be young, but I’m strong enough to kill you,” she says, hoping he underestimates her as so many of her enemies have done before. She ignites her lightsabers and slides into her opening pose.

He laughs. “Foolish girl. You could never beat me in combat.”

“Oh yeah? I killed Bo-katan Kryze. I bet I can kill you too.”

The man snarls and lunges at her. She leans out of his way, careful not to cut him with her sabers, while trying to appear like she’s trying to hit him. He swings around again. “I’ll kill you with my bare hands,” he says, spittle flying from his mouth and his face reddening.

“I’d like to see you try.”

The fight ends when she has to extinguish her lightsabers to prevent from setting him off. He breaks through her guard at that moment. His hands wrap around her throat, but he’s knocked aside by Rex as the trooper slams into him.

The Force ripples around them in warning. Ahsoka runs, grabs Rex, and leaps off a balcony as the Mandalorian explodes behind them.

Fire chases after them, singeing their clothing and armor. Gravity drags them down until they tumble onto the marble floor below. The ceiling crumbles as marble and stone fall around them.

\--------

Riis holds the hand of a frightened padawan, who has yet to realize Riis isn’t another Jedi, offering prayers with her that they will not die. It is futile. The droids in her blood will ensure they do not survive. And yet she cannot help but pray with her. She prays that the droids will fail, or the timer will fail, or something else will go wrong. These are not the thoughts of a Mandalorian, but she does not wish to die. There is so much more she could have done. She’s a talented slicer. She knows more about Mandalore’s computer systems than most people. She would be a valuable prisoner to the Republic. They wouldn’t kill her. She could be useful. She could live out her life as a prisoner of war. It might not be the best way to live, but supposedly the Republic isn’t so cruel to their prisoners as Mandalore.

“Close your eyes,” Riis says to the padawan. She bows her head, allowing their foreheads to touch. “Close your eyes and breath with me.”

“May the gods hold us in their hands,” she says. “May the Force protect us.”

“May we reunite with our comrades that have marched ahead of us,” Riis says as her comm beeps. Thirty minutes. “I’m sorry.”

\--------

Holes form in the grand walls of the Jedi Temple as bombs go off. Fires lick at everything that can burn. Smoke billows out, rising into the clear Coruscant sky. The Force ripples in anguish as Jedi and troops become trapped by the blast.

The Senate follows moments later. Then several shipyards and power plants. Thousands of lives are extinguished, their bodies disintegrating as the fire consumes them, as radiation burns through whatever it can reach even as emergency systems attempt to contain it.

Coruscant’s emergency crew emerge like rats, pouring out of their buildings until they fill the skies with hovercraft and medical transports. Medical and fire droids race to the scenes to the bombs. They are prepared for this with the warning that the Jedi had provided. Bacta is ready for the wounded. The hospitals are ready to receive patients. Perhaps the dead do number as many as they could have, but Coruscant has not experienced death like this since the last war.

\--------

“We’re being called back to Mandalore,” Mi-Nata says. Benat sits across the table from him. She’s beginning to integrate as Mi-Nata’s assistant. She may not have agreed to assist him with treason, but she still has a job to do. “The Mand’alor has been seriously wounded.”

“The Duchess? How?” Benat asks. Who could best such a woman in combat? Benat could not and she was the best her planet had to offer in martial arts. Even the Jedi have not beaten the Mandalorians despite their supernatural abilities.

“Obi-wan Kenobi somehow managed to put a knife through her helmet and into her eye. She’s in serious condition,” Mi-Nata says.

“Vibroblades can’t cut through beskar,” Benat says.

“Apparently they can, when a Jedi’s doing the throwing.”

“Impossible.”

“I don’t know how much you’ve heard about Jedi, but they’ve done impossible things before.”

“Not like this,” Benat says.

“Obi-wan Kenobi and Anakin Skywalker have been taken into custody. If the Duchess dies, they’ll both be executed, probably with slow acid disintegration. If the Duchess lives, I image she’ll be the one doing the killing.”

Benat swallows. Slow acid disintegration, a method of executing people by slowly pouring acids over the skin until it is nearly entirely burned away, then a stronger acid is poured over the limbs until they’re completely gone. Doctors keep them from going into shock or from dying too quickly. Eventually, they will die from the agony of it, just quickly enough that one can watch the whole execution without getting bored. It’s a method rarely used except when a particularly high ranking enemy general is captured. It’s designed to demoralize the enemy and let them know what’s in store for them if they don’t surrender. “And Mandalore would do this to them? They wouldn’t protest?”

“The Jedi are hated by many of Mandalore’s subjects,” Mi-Nata says. “You know I’m trying to reach out to the Empire’s citizens that weren’t raised with that hatred. If they could challenge Mandalore…”

“Then the Empire would crumble, or it won’t. Mandalore would either control its citizens, or it won’t,” Benat says. “We are not so influential as to make a difference.”

“You underestimate your importance,” Mi-Nata says. “One warrior can change the tide of a battle with one brave act or one of cowardice.”

“I can’t help you,” Benat says.

“Mandalorians can get caught up in ourselves. We need someone to shake us free. Someone to remind us that we aren’t the monsters legends tell us we are. People need to be reminded that we have another choice. We can be the honorable warriors we’re supposed to be, not murderers. We aren’t monsters, Benat, despite how we appear. We become so swept up in the violence we lose perspective. Someone needs to remind us.”

“You can,” Benat says. “But I can’t risk it.”

“You must,” Mi-Nata says. “You’re the only one who can.”  


	17. The Last Straw

Cody peels himself off the floor despite his body protesting the movement. Every inch of him feels bruised, but not broken. That’s good. Good.

He rolls onto his back as his head spins. He pulls off his cracked helmet and breathes the smokey air. He should have run faster. He had barely a moment of warning before the bombs had gone off. He’d been standing too close to a containment room.

He wiggles his fingers and toes, then gets to his feet. He’s surrounded by debris and dust and a strange silence he would never associate with Coruscant. That isn’t right. Even surrounded by the dead, he should hear the living and the emergency crews approaching.

He snaps his fingers next to his ear, confirming what he already knows. Nothing. No sound. Hopefully its just a busted eardrum. Helix can fix that. Standing too close to the heavy guns has deafened some of his brothers before. Helix always healed them, unless they chose otherwise. Afterall, sometimes it was just easier to be deafened by the guns and remain that way instead of spending hours in the medical bay week after week.

His first priority is Senators Amidala and Organa. They are the ones who are trying to get Kenobi back. Then he’ll get to the medics. He isn’t trained in search and rescue. Trying to help could get someone killed by his untrained hands. Regardless, he’s certain Coruscant has more than enough rescue troops after pulling so many back from the front lines these past few weeks. The war isn’t going well. It hasn’t been going well for a long time. The Republic wins a battle, then loses, then wins again, and then loses every inch of ground they had gained. His brothers are dying and Kamino can’t grow enough to replace them. They’ll have to start drafting the civilians if this is going to continue.

Cody scowls at the thought of incompetent civilians destroying the organized chaos of battles and military campaigns. At least maybe then the Senate will start sending them the supplies they need.

He walks through the long hallways of the Senate building and repels up a few elevator shafts when he realizes they stopped working.

Eventually, he finds Amidala’s hallway. A small snake of dread curls in his gut when he sees the damage. A bomb must have gone off above them. The roof is collapsed in some places. In others, only dark, gaping holes remain. Sparks rain down from exposed and torn wiring. The lights flicker ominously. The emergency crews are no where to be seen.

Cody pries Amidala’s office door open and finds a scene that belongs on a battlefield. The ground is scorched. The air is filled with smoke. The furniture is a ruined mess, but the desk is perfectly fine. He smiles. Amidala would never have an office without the protection of a sturdy desk for cover.

He raps twice on the desk. “Senator,” he says.

A moment later, Amidala unfolds herself from with her hideaway. It’s likely been designed by her security force after several assassination attempts and too many close calls. She says something, but Cody taps at his ears and shakes his head. She understands then offers up a hand sign for search and rescue. Cody responds with just search. Neither of them has the medical training to move any injured. He would have simply dragged her out of here if he thought she would go. Right now, he can sense her determination. She won’t leave until she knows her fellow senators are safe.

At least she’ll have some protection, not that she’ll need it, judging by the impressive number of blasters and weapons hidden within her carefully fitted dress and the massive crown of hair on her head. Naboo’s former queen is never defenseless.

Cody draws his blaster and follows her into the hallway. Other bombers could still remain, just waiting for the emergency crews to come flooding in.

Amidala sweeps through the hallway towards Organa’s office until they turn a corner. She jerks to a stop with a gasp. A massive cavern stretches before them, consuming hundreds of offices and sentients that should have been here. “He’s dead,” Amidala says.

Cody stares out over the hole and wonders how many of his brothers have also died.

\------------

Mi-Nata smiles as he steps onto Mandalore for the first time months. His home is as he remembers it. The beautiful city was crafted by Satine to give the appearance of fragility and peace, but it was only a front. Many of the beautiful ornamentations on the buildings hide gun emplacements. Others hide surveillance equipment or bunkers. Anti-aircraft weaponry is as embedded in this city as its inhabitants. It’s the perfect mix of violence and peace. Satine had known that balance once, before her brother was killed.

“Go explore the city,” he says to Benat before subtly handing her an override key for the communications array. “This is the right thing to do. Please, trust me.”

She takes the key but is still hesitant. There is much at stake for her, but more at stake for Mandalore. He remembers Mandalore as it was, before Satine grew drunk on the power she wielded. They could have been an Empire that brought peace and prosperity to its people. They could have found a way to live peacefully with the Republic, to allow the Jedi to continue to exist. But Satine could not let it go. Mandalore could have lived in peace with them if she had not stoked the fires of hatred. He prays Benat will be able to reach them. Now that Satine is out of the picture, they might just have a chance.

“Commander Mi-Nata,” a woman in yellow armor says. He recognizes her as one of Satine’s advisors.

“How is the Mand’alor?” he asks.

“She is in surgery, but we must protect the Empire in her place. We can also expect a retaliation from the recent bombings on Coruscant soon. Satine says you’re one of our most capable fleet commanders. We need you here to coordinate our fleets,” Gillsan says as he falls in to step beside her.

“Where is the fleet admiral?”

“Trapped in Republic space at the moment. You’re all we’ve got.”

They step into the elevator towards the palace. Gillsan removes her helmet and gestures for Mi-Nata to do the same. “We cannot be too careful about who may wander the palace,” she says. “The Republic is known for its treachery and cowardice. They would not hesitate to steal our armor.”

“I’m well aware,” Mi-Nata says. To wear another’s armor is unacceptable, but they are at war. The Jedi have stolen their armor and sometimes infiltrated their ranks with it. And yet they have stolen the Jedi’s lightsabers and wielded them against the Jedi. As he understands it, both armor and lightsaber have similar places in the culture of Mandalore and the Jedi. “But we are at war. Such tactics can be expected.”

Gillsan scowls before smoothing out her expression. “There is also the issue of our Jedi prisoners.”

“Who?” Mi-Nata asks, but he has no doubt in his mind that Anakin Skywalker has joined his master in imprisonment. The boy should have taken his advice and killed Kenobi. It would have been merciful.

“Kenobi and Skywalker. Skywalker will of course be executed tomorrow, but I do not wish to deprive the Duchess of her revenge. Kenobi will live until she awakes and can kill him herself.”

There is nothing he can do for the Jedi unless Benat completes her task. They would make decent bartering chips for negotiations with the Republic, but he doubts it will be possible to stop the execution. “Did you make this public?” he asks.

“Of course. The people are demanding a response to what happened to the Duchess. It’ll be something of a morale booster.”

“Then we need to get the fleet into motion. The Republic won’t let that stand, not in the wake of the bombings. This will likely be their most massive offensive. And they’ll be heading this way.”

“They wouldn’t dare attack Mandalore,” Gillsan says.

“The Jedi aren’t cowards, regardless of what our propaganda says. The Senate isn’t either. We’ve pushed too far. And they will push back.”

“Then we’ll be ready for them.”

Mi-Nata swallows around the lump in his throat. He has a bad feeling about this.

\------------

“Jedi,” a voice whispers, slightly distorted by a helmet voice modifier. Obi-wan blinks awake but finds only darkness and an injector on his neck. For a moment, he fears he has returned to the box. It is a mercy to find that is untrue. His legs are working again, but they are of little use to him. His hands are cuffed to the top of the metal slab he appears to be laying on. There will only be pain next. There is no chance to escape. There is nowhere to go. He cannot fight this hopelessness. Not anymore.

“I must speak to you.” The voice is no longer modified by the helmet and has a soft Mirialan accent. The words startle him out of his spiraling thoughts. What could a Mandalorian want from him?

“You should have killed yourself when you had the chance,” she says. “Why didn’t you?”

She is curious. Genuinely curious. “I couldn’t leave Anakin to face this alone.”

“Would you kill him if you had the chance?” she asks.

“Yes.” To save Anakin from this, he would kill his own apprentice, even if it left Obi-wan alone.

“Then you are braver than most. Perhaps there is hope for us. I need access to the Republic comm override,” she says.

“Why?” Obi-wan croaks out.

“The war needs to end. Your apprentice will be executed tomorrow if I can’t convince both sides to stand down.”

“What?” Obi-wan jerks against the cuffs, but they hold fast. Not Anakin. They can’t kill Anakin. He’s the one that killed the Duchess. “But I killed her.”

“The Mand’alor is alive but injured. She’ll be the one to kill you once she regains consciousness. Skywalker is their immediate response for what has happened to her. But I can try to stop it. I’ve given you a counter agent for the drugs. I need you to use your Force powers to sense that.”

“You have to open your mind,” Obi-wan says, slowly stretching out his Force sense. He can sense the truth in the woman’s mind. She wants to save her people. She wants the sanctions the Republic has on Mirial to be removed. She wants her people to be safe. The Duchess was her only option at the moment, but peace may just save them.

It’s still a risk. A terrible risk. He could be charged with treason for giving this up, but he can only hope this is worth it. Peace is worth the risk. Peace is always worth the risk.

“X83-9883-HK49-0,” Obi-wan whispers.

“Thank you, Obi-wan,” she says. “I’m sorry.”

She won’t rescue him. There wouldn’t be anywhere to go. There isn’t time for rescue and for her mission. “Make it worth it,” he says. He feels an injector on his neck again. The Force is slipping away again.

A gentle hand brushes his hair out of his eyes. “Stay strong, Jedi. May the gods have mercy on you.”

\------------

Anakin wakes up in a prison cell with a fully armored Mandalorian standing outside. “Your execution is scheduled for tomorrow at 1200 hours,” the man says. “You may update your will. You may write up a letter of under two hundred words which will be delivered to the Republic along with your ident chip.”

Anakin’s brain struggles to catch up as he shakes off unconsciousness. He considers telling the man about the Republic’s code regarding POWs, but this Mando is more likely to laugh at him than not. “Do I get to pick how I die?” Anakin asks.

“You’ll be publicly hanged.”

“Sound rather anticlimactic.”

“Would you rather be burned at the stake?” he asks. “That’s what I would have voted for, but the temporary ruling council is a bit squeamish when it comes to executions, unlike the Mand’alor. She knows how to treat Jedi.”

Anakin’s head snaps up. “You said knows.”

“She survived, Jedi. I can’t wait to find out what she’ll do to your buddy.”

“We don’t get to be executed together?” Anakin asks. “I was looking forward to that.”

“Funny. But Kenobi’s probably going to be alive a while longer. I can’t wait to watch.”  

“Seems like someone’s a little bored with prison duty. You get passed over for a promotion? Or were you just too weak, hut’uun.”

The Mandalorian is just about to open the cell door and attack, when the man freezes. “Nice try, Jedi. I’m not that stupid. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

\------------

“Rex?” Ahsoka says, shooting up and nearly bumping heads with a medic. Her body protests the motion. Rib grates against rib. Bruises screams in pain.

“Commander Tano,” Kix says. “Lay back down.”

“What’s going on?”

“We’re a little low on medical supplies and your wounds aren’t life threatening. We’ve got you and Rex in a triage center outside the Temple. Rex is fine. He’s a little beat up, but he’ll live.”

“No pain killers?” Ahsoka asks.

“We were hoping you could do that with the Force. We’re low on pain killers too, but we’ve managed to keep casualties to a minimum. We were lucky we were warned, or it would have been much worse. I have to go. I have a dozen more patients to attend to.”

Ahsoka nods, then looks around. It seems someone has set up a dozen cots in what seems to be a meeting room in a standard office building. A few of them are Jedi. The rest are clones. Most of them are awake but holding still to avoid aggravating any injuries.

She can sense many other lives in the building around them. Many of them are wounded, but not severely. It seems the severe injuries have been moved somewhere else. And Rex isn’t here. She tries to reach out for him but reaches an unconscious mind. Kix says Rex was fine, but Ahsoka can’t help but worry. Rex is one of her best friends. He has to survive. He’s all she has left.

Anakin is gone. Obi-wan is gone. Barriss is dead. Others are missing. More are dead. She can’t help but feel like it won’t be long before all of them are. All the Jedi, all her friends, will be gone.

She will be alone.

Ahsoka closes her eyes. This is too much. She just wants to be a Jedi. A normal Jedi, not a commander. A peacekeeper. A healer. A teacher. A friend. Then she can find something truly worth fighting for. This war is about survival. She has done nothing else but survive for years. There has to be something more.

“Padawan Tano,” Windu says, limping into the room on a pair of crutches.

“Master Windu,” she says and tries to get up, but Windu gently pushes her back down.

“You did well, Ahsoka,” he says.

“Something’s wrong,” she says as the Force wobbles around her.

He kneels down next to her. “New from Mandalore. They captured Skywalker. He’s scheduled for execution tomorrow.”

“No,” Ahsoka says. “We have to stop them.”

“We’re going to try. The Senate has authorized everything we have for an attack on Mandalore. They’re gambling that if they cut off the head, the Empire will flounder. They’re ordering us to abandon all other fronts to make this happen. The people want revenge.”

“We can’t,” Ahsoka says. “It’s suicide.”

“We don’t have choice. And it’s the only way to rescue Kenobi and Skywalker.”

“I know. But somehow I don’t think we’re all going to make it back.”

“You aren’t going.”

“I am. He’s my master. And I can’t leave him there alone.”

“Convoy is leaving in an hour. You can’t walk.”

“Please don’t make me stay.”

“We aren’t sending padawans.”

“Let me be there for him.”

Windu sighs. “You can follow afterwards. Stay hidden. They’ll call if they rescue them. You can meet them in the medical bay. And I’m coming with you.”

\------------

Blue shadows dance across the walls of the isolated medical ward. It is deep within the palace, behind dozens of locked doors. A woman floats inside a bacta tank. Her heart beats steadily, but she does not wake. Not yet.


	18. The End of All Things

Ahsoka sits in the cockpit of her small fighter out of range of the battle to come, but close enough to pick up Republic signals from the battle. She sees Master Windu’s cruiser, a small patch of red against the much larger planet, Mandalore. Dozens of other cruisers are dropping out of hyperspace. Others have already begun an orbital bombardment. Hundreds of fighters, barely more than flies when seen at this distance, dance in huddled groups before smashing into each other.

Her hands itch to pilot her ship into battle, to protect, to defend, but she doesn’t have the fine motor skills for dogfighting, not with the bones and nerves of her hands still broken and damaged from the explosions. Her leg is still to damaged to let her participate in the ground fighting, so she waits here and begs the Force to have mercy on them.

R2 beeps at her from the wing. He hasn’t been the same since Skyguy left. He also isn’t very confident of their chances at returning. 3PO must have gotten to him with his pessimistic statistics.

“They’ll be fine,” Ahsoka says. “They’re always fine.” R2 beeps again. He isn’t confident. He’s about to inform her of their statistics when she interrupts him. “I know you’re worried, but you have to stay positive. I need you to stay positive. Please.”

R2 flatly informs her that of course the humans will be just fine. It’s not as if they’re on an enemy planet, surrounded by enemy troops that wish to kill them and everyone they know.

“You’re not helping,” Ahsoka says.

R2 complains that he isn’t a protocol droid and isn’t very good at feelings. He is, however, very good at piloting and would like to participate in the battle.

“I know, but we won’t be of much use. We’ll stay here so that we can be there when we’re needed.”

“This is Lieutenant Benat of Mirial. And you will hear me,” a voice says over the comm as a hologram of a woman appears over the projector. Ahsoka nearly jumps out of her chair at the sight of a woman in Mandalorian armor suddenly invading her space. She doesn’t wear a helmet, which exposes a youthful face. A sentient being’s face, not a visor. No longer a faceless enemy.

\------------

“My people are starving. I joined Mandalore’s army so that I could help feed them. I didn’t believe in the cause. I didn’t believe in the Empire,” Benat says. Her hologram stands tall on the bridge of Mace’s cruiser. Mace had turned away from the battle before him when the transmission had broken through their encryption with ease. It shouldn’t have been possible.

His gaze flicks down to the last five digits of the comm override code. It’s a Jedi Council code, one that is nearly impossible to change. Its existence isn’t even known to those outside the Republic, but he supposes its existence could have been inferred by this woman. Obi-wan is the likely source of this breach. Did Obi-wan trust her enough to give it to her? Was he desperate enough? Did they torture it out of him? Did they break apart his mind and convince him to aid them?

“I have seen horrors committed by both sides. I have seen thousands slaughtered in the crossfire. I have seen people torture each other. And I have stood by. I have stood by because I didn’t believe it was my responsibility. But it is. It is everyone’s responsibility. We’ve been swept up in the frenzy of it all,” she says. “No more.”

The galaxy seems to fade out of his awareness. He can sense Benat on the planet below. He can sense her desperation, her earnestness. Her passion is like a flare in the night sky, a final call for help, for change, for anything. She is so tired of standing by.

\------------

Padme sits across from Cody in a restaurant a few blocks from the Senate building which has now been fully evacuated. The man’s comm unit is on the table between them and displays a blue figure, six inches tall, but still physically imposing in the way that armored figures have always been.

“I’m not going to fight in their war. I’m not going to kill because someone told me to,” Benat says. “You shouldn’t either.”

Padme sees Cody staring unblinkingly at the woman. An emotion passes over his face. It’s some combination of grief, of pain, of rage.

“I know we’ve killed each other. I know many Mandalorians have died at the hands of the clones and Jedi. I know many clones and Jedi have died at the hands of the Mandalorians. But this will never end if we don’t make the choice our leaders won’t.”

She realizes in that moment that he is mourning. A thousand images pop into her head of the clones, who always somehow existed in the background of her awareness despite her belief that they are more than the biomechanical droids the Senate wants them to be. They are brothers to each other. Every hour of war chips away at their family. They want it to end. They need it to end before none of them are left.

And if the clones, the people created for war, can want it to end, then surely the Mandalorians can want peace too.

\------------

Mi-Nata smiles when he sees the signal Benat is sending out. The override code is one that belongs solely to Someone will recognize it soon enough and the loyalists will come kill him. There hadn’t been time to steal someone else’s key. It won’t take long for them to get here. He can only hope that they’ll be distracted chasing him down instead of shutting down the message before it has a chance to spread.

“It’s time to stop the fighting,” Benat says. “For our people. For our children. For those of us that aren’t yet dead. We deserve a chance to live without war. We deserve a chance to be something other than soldiers. No one is going to win this war. But we can end this. We can end everything. Right now.”

Mi-Nata smiles. He’ll survive. And he’ll make sure that Mandalore survives this too.

\------------

The guards are cutting through the door. There’s no other way out of the room. The air vents are too small. There are no windows in this small communications room, only the long distance communication equipment that dominate the space. There’s nowhere to hide, nowhere to take cover. They’ll come in, blasters firing, and kill her.

She adjusts her helmet and pulls out her virboblade. She cuts through wires and paneling until the equipment is no longer attached to the wall. She yanks and pulls until her muscles strain and shake. Finally, it edges away from the wall. It takes what remains of her strength to shove the massive equipment against the door. She wedges some of her armor plates underneath it to prevent the guards from pushing it over. She leaves just enough space for one person to force their way in. Anyone in armor would likely have to take it off to fit through the gap.

She breaths slowly, evenly, and prepares her body for a fight. She stretches out a hand and reaches into her memories for her sister. Her older sister’s image is the same age she was when she died, but she isn’t starving. Her body is healthy and fit, exactly as she should have been if this war hadn’t destroyed their world, if she hadn’t sacrificed everything she had so that Benat would survive.

“Mariora,” Benat whispers.  

Her sister smiles gently. “You did the right thing. I’m so proud of you,” she says.

Benat closes her eyes. She takes up a position behind the equipment with her blaster drawn and her knives at the ready once her ammo runs out.

She breathes in. She breathes out.

“I’ll see you soon,” Benat says to her as she hears the door being torn away and blaster shots begin to ricochet around the room.

“It’s not time to die,” Mariora says. “You still have work to do.”

Benat swallows. She breathes again. “Stand with me.”

“I always will.”

\------------

His guard, who Anakin had named Dum-Dum after the man refused to respond to Anakin’s pestering about his name, is pacing in front of the cell. The entire building shakes every few minutes when some of the continuing bombardment seeps through the shields above the city. Anakin can just barely make out the pitter-patter of bombs dropping and exploding against an atmospheric shield. It seems the Republic has arrived. He’s surprised, but hopeful. Even as he tries to keep that growing hope under control, he can’t quite contain it. He had survived every one of his ridiculous plans, every risk he had ever taken. Maybe his luck hasn’t run out yet.

“You’re still being executed,” Dum-Dum growls. “I’ll do it myself if I have to.”

A giddy laugh crawls its way up his throat and out of his mouth. “Oh, I can’t wait.”

“Guard?” a new voice says, except its not new. It’s the Mando captain, the one that let him go. “Get the Jedi ready for execution. The Republic is breaking through. Our fleet won’t get here in time.”

“Commander Mi-Nata?” Dum-Dum says. “What’s going on?”

“The Empire is beginning to destabilize. People were already pissed about the treatment of the Jedi and the war taxes. Benat just sparked the fire,” Mi-Nata says. “But Mandalore will survive. We always survive. We just need one last spark to bind us together for the rest of time.”

“What are you talking about? You were the one who let me go!” Anakin says.

“Yes, yes I did. I told you that Mandalore has been and always will be my priority. My people will survive. We will regain our identity. But we cannot be victims. Our rage is essential to who we are. If the Republic takes our Empire without us striking a single blow in return, we will not survive. I had thought it would have to be Kenobi, but you are a far better option. You’re so vibrant. So very Jedi-like. I had hoped to spare the both of you, but your Republic attack came faster than I thought. I don’t have a choice. I am sorry.”

“The hell you are,” Anakin says, backing away from the door just as Dum-Dum rips off his helmet and draws his blaster.

“What kind of talk is that?” Dum-Dum says to Mi-Nata as he draws his blaster. “You wanted to spare the Jedi?”

“Your singlemindedness is what’s killing Mandalore. Jedi may be the enemy, but that hatred is going to get us all killed. If you can’t put your and your clan’s survival above your hatred, what kind of Mandalorian are you?”

“The kind that’s still loyal to the Mand’alor.”

Dum-Dum gets off two shots before Mi-Nata grabs the man’s blaster from him and bashes him over the head with it. Mi-Nata kicks the man over the balcony to a bloody death a few stories down. “Looks like he lost his balance,” Mi-Nata says. “Now, are you going to walk on your own two feet or should I carry you?”

“This is insane.”

“Satine can’t lead us anymore. Whoever kills you will likely be the one nominated as acting Mand’alor. This is the way to change our people. This is the way to restore Mandalore as it should have been, not the chaos Satine has driven us into. I promise you that you will be the last Jedi Mandalore will kill. Your people will live in peace and we will look after the Outer Rims. We can coexist. But I’m the only true Mandalorian you’ll ever meet that will be willing to make that happen. I am our one chance. Will you fight me?”

“You truly believe my death will be enough to unite Mandalore under you? And you think you can change years of fighting?”

“I think it’s our best chance.”

“And Obi-wan?”

“No one will touch him until either Satine dies or wakes. She is entitled to revenge. If she dies and I’ve turned people away from her views, I might just be able to spare his life.”

“And if she wakes?”

“Trust me, Skywalker. She won’t be waking up again.”  

He longs to fight, but he cannot help but wonder if what Mi-Nata says is the truth? Could his death truly help bring peace? Could it protect Ahsoka and Obi-wan? Could it protect Padme? He’s still the Chosen One. Is this how he brings balance to a galaxy at war?

Politics have never been his strong suit. He needs more time. He needs to see if Mi-Nata is right. He won’t go to his death without a fight unless someone gives him a good reason. Could this be that reason?

Or is Mi-Nata just another politician, another liar, just trying to grab power?

Time. He needs time. The Republic will break through soon enough. Someone will come rescue him. He just needs to be alive when they get here. At least Mi-Nata doesn’t seem too inclined to kill him until he has a significant audience. That could just work in his favor.

\------------

Obi-wan hits the floor of his cell with a brutal jolt of bones and metal meeting too quickly. His bones and muscles ache, but the beating he was just subjected to was fairly routine at this point. At least, it seemed routine. He had no idea how long he had been in the darkness, how long it had been since the stabbed Satine. Hours, days, weeks. It’s all blurred together. The torture is impersonal, methodical, almost dull. They’re keeping him weak, probably so that once Satine recovers she can do as she pleases. Her return will be a change from the monotony, from the darkness. It will also be the day that his spirit breaks.

The cell door slams shut, leaving him in perfect darkness once again. The cell rumbles faintly. Some sort of construction, probably. The beating had been cut short by said rumbles, so maybe it was something more interesting, but it’s becoming difficult to care. It’s becoming difficult to remember anything but the constant, unending pain.

He drags himself to the far wall of the cell, his weakened muscles and broken bones protesting the whole way. It’s the one part of the cell he has worked to keep clean of his own urine and feces, which they hadn’t offered him any other way to deal with. He’s become unaware of the smell, but he did notice they disgust of the Mandos when they smelled him. He claimed their discomfort as a victory. He had so very few good moments. He took what he could get.

Obi-wan closes his eyes and dreams of death. He imagines slipping away, his body finally giving out. He imagines his last breath and the relief that would come with no longer being in pain. Becoming one with the Force means very little to him. An escape from the pain is all he wants. Feeling nothing is the ultimate goal. Escape is pointless. Hope is meaningless.

He imagines that one of the guards hits his head too hard and cracks his skull. He imagines a stray kick to one of the more vulnerable organs. Maybe they don’t realize how seriously they’ve wounded him. They’d throw him back in his cell, where he’d lay down, close his eyes, and die.

He imagines Satine coming to break him and finding him dead. He smiles.

\------------

Satine opens her eyes slightly. The bacta cradles her body, supporting it as she heals. She can make out the blurry image of a doctor outside the tank. For one fleeting moment she relaxes, believing she is in good hands. Her brain catches up a moment later. That isn’t her doctor. Her doctor, Lyra Hanir, is a Togruta, which that blurry shadow clearly is not.

Satine keeps her heart rate steady as she pulls the IV out of her arm. The supposed doctor isn’t looking at her. They’re fiddling with some of the equipment. She doesn’t plan on giving them a chance.

Satine leaps out of the bacta tank, starling the doctor. She leaps forward, tackling the man to the ground before he has a chance to react. She knocks the needle of suspicious chemicals away and uses the weapons she has available. She pins him to the ground. His eyes are filled with fear. It excites her.

“Who sent you?” she says.  

“You’ve led Mandalore astray. It’s my duty to stop you.”

“Then as Mand’alor, it’s seems I need to remind you what being Mandalorian means.”

**Author's Note:**

> come find me on tumblr: ambiguousnights.tumblr.com


End file.
